Author's note: All the usual disclaimers apply – I don't own the show or the characters, only the words on this page. I've only seen three complete episodes, and bits of some others – and this is my first foray into this show – so I hope this isn't too far off-base. As always, I'd love to hear what you think.

Gibraltar crumbles
by BHP

Don: "I'm cool until it all quiets down. Then it's like my head is a bad neighbourhood to be in."

Rampage, Numb3rs, season 2

Don Eppes liked the break room dim. He'd left the lights off on purpose, settled in a chair with a cup of semi-decent coffee, feet resting on another chair. Outside the glass walls, he could see the office taking shape again; everything was almost back to normal after the shooting earlier in the week. No more glass on the floor, the bloodstains cleaned up, his team celebrating another closed case. Charlie still breathing. Don twitched as his mind replayed the look of shock on Charlie's face as the bullet ploughed through the whiteboard, just inches from Charlie's head. Then his mind went into overdrive and replayed the scene again – this time with the bullet hole appearing in the side of Charlie's head, blood covering the equation and splattering onto Don. With an effort, he forced himself back to the present, where Charlie was still breathing. The sound of doors opening and closing brought home to Don the fact that someone had entered the room while he'd been stuck in his morbid thoughts. That sort of lapse could prove deadly, as it almost had this week. A question about sugar made him focus enough to recognise Charlie. Safe, sound, and still breathing.

Charlie didn't really want tea, or coffee, or the sugar he'd supposedly been searching for in the cupboards. He'd seen Don sitting in the dark, and couldn't bear the bleak and solitary aura around his brother. Which was why he'd latched onto a packet of spaghetti, and an explanation of fragmentation theory. Numbers were safe, unchanging, reasonably compliant, and most importantly, unemotional. He'd spent so much of his life learning to cope with the ever-present siren song of equations that danced in his head, that he'd never really learned how to cope with the emotions that simmered beneath the algorithms. And now that his world and Don's had intersected irrevocably, with the path of one bullet, he knew that things would have to change. He needed to learn to cope with the emotions. Don needed him to be present. He understood that now, as he hadn't understood it when their mother was dying. He couldn't fail Don as he'd failed her. Charlie's mental obsessions had always been soothing, so to suddenly realise that Don thought of the contents of his head as a bad neighbourhood was a shock. He wanted to change that if he could. He hoped that talking about fragmentation theory could give him the detachment he needed to be strong enough to help Don.

Nearly an hour later, the brothers headed out of the office together. Don stopped at his desk long enough to power down his computer and collect his jacket, slipping it on without rolling down the sleeves of his dress shirt. No sense walking around with his gun and badge on display, even after dark. You could never be sure who was watching. The trip to the car was quiet, but comfortable. Pleasant in a way it wouldn't have been just a couple of years earlier. Slipping into the driver's seat while Charlie settled in next to him, Don scrubbed a hand through his hair and swallowed a yawn.

"I'll drop you off at home, Charlie?"

"Sure. Thanks." The slightly distracted tone made Don's lips twitch in a wry grin. Charlie hadn't wandered off in over an hour; it was overdue.

"Okay. What now?" Silence met his question. "Charlie. Earth to Charlie. What now?"

"What? Oh, sorry. No, nothing." Charlie blinked at Don's disbelieving gaze, and ducked his head. "Okay, okay. I was just wondering about creating an equation to map out the statistical probability of something like this ever happening again. You know, in this office, with the same people present – I would think it's probably quite a remote possibility, but …"

Don laughed as Charlie trailed off. He shook his head, understanding that putting a number on the probability made it easier for Charlie to deal with what had happened.

"Take it from me, Charlie, the chance is next to zero. That's if I have anything at all to do with it." Don's voice was certain, as he moved out into the traffic, setting a mental course to Charlie's house.

Charlie nodded enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the fact that Don was now weaving through the light evening traffic with unconscious skill. The look on his face made it clear that his mind was totally focused on his new theory.

"See, Don, that's another variable to consider. What effect did your presence have this time, your response to what was going on. Apart from factoring in that response, I'd then have to factor in what you'd do differently, especially taking into account what just happened, plus what you just said, and then the same group of factors for each member of your team."

Charlie broke off to dig in the pockets of his tan jacket, quickly finding a pencil and a sheet of paper. His preoccupation ensured that he missed the momentary unhappiness that flitted across Don's face. Pencil in hand, he started to scribble notes, unconcerned that Don had fallen silent.

Don parked in the driveway of his childhood home, letting himself take in the sense of peace that always seemed to radiate from the structure. He relaxed in the seat and let his mind wander. He couldn't remember how many times he'd used a mental image of this house to keep himself strong and sane during his years away. He'd been very good at fugitive recovery, and he'd enjoyed it for what it was: fast-paced, action-oriented and adrenaline-inducing. But underneath all of that, he'd had another reason for being so good at the job. This house. The people who lived in it. His parents had raised him well, and he knew that was part of it. His sense of duty was strong. But there had always been the added proviso that he must look after his little brother. To his mind, the best way to keep them all safe was by taking criminals off the streets. No matter the personal cost. He wasn't one to complain, but the cost had been high. Memories that couldn't be switched off, years of strained ties with his parents, and a shattered relationship with his brother. Shattered. Not a word he wanted to dwell on at the moment. Although he had to admit that his relationship with Charlie had improved radically since they'd started working together. Long may it last. Don glanced sideways and then turned to stare openly.

Charlie was scribbling frantically, covering his sheet of paper with arcane symbols and loads of numbers, stopping occasionally to tap the pencil on the hand holding the paper. He hadn't even realised that Don had switched the car engine off. Wild curls hid his eyes, giving him an endearingly child-like look fully at odds with his intelligence. The chuckle slipped out before Don could stop it. Charlie's pencil stopped and he looked up, straight at Don. Puzzled brown eyes watched Don watching Charlie, and then Don saw awareness creep in. Along with a faintly abashed look in Charlie's eyes.

"Sorry. I did it again, didn't I?"

"Not to worry, Charlie. We've all spaced out at some point."

Don tried to be casual about it, but it was hard to fool a genius. Even a distracted one, and even with a lifetime's practice. He could see the cogs turn in Charlie's mind, and the moment when Charlie connected all the dots. And the moment when Charlie made a choice. What choice, Don wasn't sure, but the signs were clear.

"Come in?" The question was quiet, even a little uncertain. Then Charlie's voice got stronger. "I'm sure Dad'll be pleased to see you."

"Dad's not here, Charlie. He and Megan are probably eating dinner right now, most likely discussing us."

"How do you know that?"

"He was at the office. I saw them leave together."

"When was that?" Charlie was confused. "And why didn't I see them?"

Don laughed and shook his head. "I saw him because it's my job to know what's going on around me." Even if he'd almost failed spectacularly a few days earlier. "We were talking about spaghetti; you were giving me an explanation of waves, and rigid tension, and all the reasons you can't snap spaghetti in two."

Charlie's confusion cleared, and a smile filled his face. "Okay, then. Come in anyway. There's bound to be leftovers to eat." Charlie took a deeper breath and Don sensed his brother was about to do something without knowing the outcome. "Besides, this is a better neighbourhood by far."

Charlie dug in the fridge, pulling out the makings for sandwiches, acutely aware of Don's presence behind him. His brother had dropped his keys on the hall table and laid his jacket next to Charlie's, over the back of a chair near the door, before following him into the kitchen. Charlie couldn't believe what he said; what had possessed him to say what he had in the car? How could he presume to understand what was going on in Don's head, in his life or in the past he'd never shared with Charlie? Still, he'd said it, and now he'd have to find a way to deal with what he'd done.

"Sandwich?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Charlie watched Don snag a beer out of the fridge and turned back to the food. He heard Don pop the cap off the bottle and drop it on the counter top. Charlie knew he made great sandwiches. He'd once worked out how to make the perfect sandwich – the ratio of meat to mayo, cheese to condiments – and yet, it hadn't tasted as good as the ones he created by following his instincts. Another interesting problem to which he'd yet to find a satisfactory answer. So he quickly put together an instinct-based pair of sandwiches, glancing sideways every so often to watch Don drink his beer.

They headed to the dinner table, Don holding the door open as Charlie carried the plates. Don dropped into a chair and nodded his thanks as Charlie placed a sandwich in front of him. He made short work of the meal, only realising then just how ravenous he was. Seated opposite him, Charlie made similar inroads into his food. Finally, eyes on his empty plate, Charlie struggled to find the words he needed.

"Don." Don's eyes met Charlie's, brown and warm, full of something Charlie would have had to label concern, and under that, something else he would have to label love. "What you said, earlier?" Don waited quietly while Charlie worked out the question.

"Does that happen often?" Don's face stayed blank, forcing Charlie on. "The bad neighbourhood thing?"

"No, Charlie." Something about Don's voice made it clear to Charlie that his brother was hiding something. At the very least, hedging the truth.

"Really?"

"I can handle it." Charlie recognised that look. Don was closing in on himself, protecting Charlie again. Sometimes he despaired of ever getting his big brother and his father to treat him as an adult. Time to try another approach.

"Why?"

"Why what, Charlie?"

"Why is it a bad neighbourhood?" Charlie could sense the wall going up at that; the one that Don always used to keep parts of his life hidden. To keep control. "Is it just what happened now? Or something else?" Don's silence pushed Charlie to try again. "Please talk to me." A tiny shake of Don's head gave Charlie the impression that Don was listening to someone he couldn't see.

"I'm fine."

Charlie pictured the bullet hole in the board again, and let himself remember the terror he'd felt. Terror of dying, sure, but also an absolutely paralysing fear that he'd survive, only to watch his brother die instead. Because Don had pushed Charlie to the floor and placed himself firmly in the line of fire. Yet Don would have him believe that after everything that had happened, Don was unaffected. He knew he'd accused his brother of being detached, but he also knew that wasn't true. His mind suddenly provided one of those startling leaps he'd grown accustomed to, only this time, his epiphany didn't include a single number.

When his dad had found the music his mom had composed, not that long ago, Don had been the one to settle in front of the piano and give it life. Express the emotions hidden in the simple notes on paper. They'd both learned to play the piano as children, and Charlie knew he was being honest when he remembered his playing to be better than Don's; at least, technically better. He'd had every note perfect, the mathematics behind them making it easy. But Don – oh, Don's playing could always make him cry. There wasn't an emotion his brother couldn't coax from the instrument, filling the room with all the things he couldn't say. Charlie realised now that the piano had been an outlet for Don's pain and his uncertainty about his place in the world, in the face of Charlie's genius. Don had learned to cope alone, to build a wall as strong as the rock of Gibraltar. To make sure that he kept his doubts locked away, to make sure that Charlie was okay. But people grew, and changed. "Don. Let me help you, please."

Don had never been able to deny Charlie anything. One look at those big brown eyes and that mop of curly hair, and all Don could see was the little brother he'd loved almost more than life itself. Still loved. No matter his age, he'd always see Charlie as young and innocent. In his memory, he could still hear his mom telling him, "You need to take care of Charlie, Don. He's special, you know, but he's not strong like you."

He'd resented that as a child, and as a teenager. No-one had ever seen him, Don Eppes, but rather Charlie's older brother. Older, but never as smart. For a long time, that had hurt. Until he'd moved away, grown into his own person, and learned that there were things he was good at, on his own. Met people who'd never met Charlie, and never compared the two brothers. And he'd learned, too, what a gift Charlie's genius had been for him. He'd had to work harder than Charlie, all his life, to seem even a quarter as smart. He'd put everything he had into baseball, until he'd realised that he'd never make the majors. But those two things had made him stronger, more independent, and smarter than he'd ever believed he was. Quantico hadn't been easy, but he'd struggled less than most people in his intake to make it through the training. But one thing even Quantico hadn't been able to teach him: how to resist Charlie.

"Like I said, Charlie, I'm fine."

"I'm a genius, you know."

"Yeah, I know. What's your point?"

"Just because I'm a genius at math doesn't mean I'm an idiot about other things."

"I never said it did."

"But you all think it." Don glanced up from picking at the label on the beer bottle to see Charlie roll his eyes. "Charlie's not good with people, with reality, with life." Don's eyes widened fractionally at the banked rage simmering under the words, and reached out a hand to touch his brother's arm.

"I don't think that."

"Really?"

"Sarcasm's not your thing." Don chuckled quietly at the exasperated look on Charlie's face. "I don't think of you like that, Charlie. Honestly."

"Well then, why won't you just talk to me?"

Don bit his lip and idly dragged a fingertip through the crumbs on his plate. Charlie wasn't going to let this go. Time to just confess.

"Look, Charlie, I chose this life. I had some idea of what I was getting into." Some, but not all. Sometimes, reality was so much worse than Don imagined; worse than he could imagine.

"It's not often pretty. A lot of it can be slow going, digging through records and paperwork. And sometimes, it's just plain ugly." Now Charlie had reached out to rest a hand over Don's, and the warmth of another human touched loosened Don's tight control.

"There's times when it all goes wrong. When nothing you do is enough to save someone …" Don trailed off, seeing again a little girl who'd reminded him so much of his baby brother. At least, until her father had put a bullet through her head, and then his own. Without thinking, Don turned his hand over to grasp Charlie's fingers, warm with life, and hung on tightly. He looked up to see Charlie's eyes fixed on him in a gaze usually reserved for understanding the most complex equations. He glanced away, and took a deep breath to banish the girl's face.

"I don't want those times to live in your head too. You don't deserve that, Charlie." Charlie's grip tightened until Don was forced to look at him again. The open concern and care on Charlie's face was a balm to his wounded soul, as were his brother's words, "Neither do you."

"I trust you, Don." Charlie was earnest, sincere. "I always have. If you don't want to tell me the details, I'll trust your judgement. But I don't need details to know you're hurting." Don tried to pull his hand back, but Charlie clung tightly. "Just let me be there for you, okay? Let me know when it hurts. You don't have to tell me why, just that it does." Charlie's laugh was sad. "I know you've always handled everything alone, and that's my fault. But I know I can help you, if you'll just let me."

Don's protective instincts kicked in again, and his words were quiet and firm. "It's not your fault. It's no-one's fault. That's just the way things worked out for us." A real smile crossed his face as he thought about their time in the break room. "Besides, you've already helped."

Charlie's quizzical expression made Don laugh again. "Spaghetti?" Charlie ducked his head to hide a shy, pleased grin. "That was exactly what I needed right then. You did good, Chuck."

"Don't call me that."

"Chuck." Don's grin was sly. He knew what he was starting, and relished the opportunity to needle Charlie.

"Donald." Charlie's snicker let Don know that Charlie knew what Don was up to, and would play along anyway.

"Geek."

"Jock."

"Egghead."

"Jerk."

"Nerd."

"Tough guy."

Don caught Charlie's eye, and thought how he'd just spilled his guts to his baby brother. Told him things he'd never told anyone else. Proved that his emotions were real, and much harder to control than he'd let Charlie believe before now. Some tough guy he was. He couldn't hold the laughter in as he shook his head in denial. Then Charlie was laughing too.

Five minutes later, Alan walked in to find his two boys holding their sides while they laughed. As the hilarity faded, he raised an eyebrow in question to Charlie, only to see Charlie shake his head and start laughing again. Turning the look on his eldest, he found Don almost convulsed with laughter as well.

"Someone care to share the joke?"

"No joke, Dad." Don managed to catch his breath long enough to answer, gracing his father with a happy smile. The kind of carefree smile Alan hadn't seen in a while; hadn't been sure Don was still able to offer.

"Now why don't I believe you?"

"Honest, Dad. No joke." Suddenly serious, Don glanced over at Charlie. "Thanks, Charlie."

"Any time, Don." Charlie offered his brother a small, shy grin.

As the two men locked gazes, Alan wondered just what had been going on before his arrival. He couldn't quite follow the silent communication in that shared glance, but realised that something important had changed between his sons. Changed for the better.