randomly, a NUMB3RS fanfic.
title: Freak
characters: Charlie. Don.
word count: 300
genre: gen
rating: PG-13
warnings: death
spoilers: none
summary: Charlie finds Don, and it's downhill from there.
~
He’s cold to the touch when you find him. Frighteningly cold. You’ve pulled your hand back without knowing it. He’s grey too. But that doesn’t matter, because you have him, you found him, and everything’s going to be fine. That’s what you focus on that when you flip out the cell phone, call the others. Paramedics first, but it’s fine, it’s fine, you have him; he’s right here. Right here.
His open eyes stare, unblinkingly, as you wait for the others, but you avoid that, and you’re babbling- sorry it took so long, David got his wires crossed, and yeah, Colby blew up during an interrogation- because you can’t register that. You can’t even think that. You didn’t let yourself think that before, when he was still lost, and you can’t think that now.
It’s when the EMTs rush past you (they took too long, jesus, they did), shouting things, putting things into his body, now one of them straddling him, hands clasped in a fist, a hard shove downward, the first of many- and you, the freak you are, you count them, you start counting them and you can’t help but wonder at the exact velocity of the paramedics compressions- and, and, and it’s when his ribs crack, that you feel something in your own chest explode.
This isn‘t happening, you think wildly, wobbling unsteadily in the crouched position next to your brother.
But it is, and you can’t do anything, so instead you sit and calculate the speed and direction of the paramedics arms and hands, numbers scratching out and changing themselves, morphing in your mind as you try to find the value of x.
characters: Charlie. Don.
word count: 300
genre: gen
rating: PG-13
warnings: death
spoilers: none
summary: Charlie finds Don, and it's downhill from there.
~
He’s cold to the touch when you find him. Frighteningly cold. You’ve pulled your hand back without knowing it. He’s grey too. But that doesn’t matter, because you have him, you found him, and everything’s going to be fine. That’s what you focus on that when you flip out the cell phone, call the others. Paramedics first, but it’s fine, it’s fine, you have him; he’s right here. Right here.
His open eyes stare, unblinkingly, as you wait for the others, but you avoid that, and you’re babbling- sorry it took so long, David got his wires crossed, and yeah, Colby blew up during an interrogation- because you can’t register that. You can’t even think that. You didn’t let yourself think that before, when he was still lost, and you can’t think that now.
It’s when the EMTs rush past you (they took too long, jesus, they did), shouting things, putting things into his body, now one of them straddling him, hands clasped in a fist, a hard shove downward, the first of many- and you, the freak you are, you count them, you start counting them and you can’t help but wonder at the exact velocity of the paramedics compressions- and, and, and it’s when his ribs crack, that you feel something in your own chest explode.
This isn‘t happening, you think wildly, wobbling unsteadily in the crouched position next to your brother.
But it is, and you can’t do anything, so instead you sit and calculate the speed and direction of the paramedics arms and hands, numbers scratching out and changing themselves, morphing in your mind as you try to find the value of x.