FIC: Simplify The World
Title: Simplify The World
Author: serotonin_storm
Fandom: Numb3rs
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Charlie/Don
Warnings: incest, angst
Word Count: 3000 words
Summary: “And no psychologist would ever consider you unhealthy, am I right?”
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Nominated at numb3rs_awards. Edited 12/9/08.

All his life, Charlie dreamt of numbers. He dreamt of their simplicity, of their honesty, in such a complicated world. In his dreams there were equations and algorithms and statistical values, and he always knew the answer, always knew what should go on the other side of that equal sign. Occasionally people from his life would make appearances in his subconscious as well; his mother would comfort, his father would protect, or Don would watch over him, just out of reach. But the numbers were the only constant, up until the very day they suddenly vanished from his dreamworld completely and the real world was thrown off-balance.

He fell, headfirst, and began to drown.


--

“Charlie, if you don't eat, I'm going to be forced to commit you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as his father's voice broke into the quiet of the living room. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he leaned his head against the back of the couch and tried unsuccessfully to return the world to silence. To block out his surroundings.

His surroundings were insistent, though, always had been. The couch dipped gently as Alan took a seat beside him, paper in hand. Charlie opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

“Charlie?” Alan repeated. “You listening to me?”

Charlie let another beat of silence go by before he answered, reluctant to engage. “You can't commit me,” he said finally. “I'm an adult. I'd have to consent, or you'd need a psychological evaluation.”

That got him a sideways glance. “And no psychologist would ever consider you unhealthy, am I right?”

“Dad.” Shaking his curls out of his face, he sighed, “I'm fine, and I vaguely recall entering this cool thing called adulthood. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Have you eaten dinner yet, mister capable?”

He gave a small shrug. “I'm not hungry right now.”

Frustration was etched deeply into Alan's features, though he tried to keep it hidden. “You're not hungry, you're not hungry. You've been saying that for how many days now?” he asked pointedly. “There's only so long you can be not hungry, Charlie.”

“Well, I haven't hit that point yet,” Charlie said. It wasn't a lie. Though he hadn't eaten much at all in days, and kept expecting hunger to start gnawing at his insides, excepting the occasional pang late at night and discounting the chaos of his thoughts, his body felt fine. He just didn't know how to convey this in a way that Alan would understand, or believe.

His father was staring at him, trying to see through him. He had to get away.

Alan glanced away, back to his paper, as Charlie climbed to his feet. He looked weary and wary, and was obviously at the end of his rope with his youngest son; but Charlie didn't see anything he could do about that fact, and he didn't feel strong enough to try. Alan was just too much sometimes, and he'd never taught Charlie to be as loud as he was.

“I'm turning in, Dad. I'll see you tomorrow,” he mumbled, padding across the room. As he headed for the stairs, he heard his father call, “There's pasta in the fridge. You know, for when you do hit that point.”

He felt almost guilty, but Alan's concern was comforting. He'd have to eat eventually, he knew, and so the pasta in the fridge was a nice thing to think of, and it stood for something important – security, maybe. He'd thank Alan for saving it after he ate it.

Not right then, though. He just wasn't hungry right then, as much as he wished he were. He was tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep. To dream and hope for numbers.


--

It didn't make sense. He'd gone over it a thousand times, with a thousand different approaches, and it just did not make sense. He tapped the chalk against the board impatiently, trying his best to keep his frustration at bay, and considered the numbers once more.

Why couldn't he figure this out?

“Charles?”

It was Larry's voice, calling quietly from the doorway of his classroom. Charlie acknowledged him with a nod and gave the board a longing look – when the numbers needed to speak with him, it was never with words.

Footsteps joined the mixed sounds of their breathing. Twelve, to be exact; and then Larry stopped, becoming only a heavy presence by Charlie's right shoulder.

“Charles, a man who neither eats nor rests his mind has an incredibly slim chance of reaching his body's optimum performance level, which always did seem to be your goal.”

“I'm eating, Larry,” he sighed. “I'm just – I'm just very busy at the moment, okay?” A hint, if there ever was one, and it was the absolute truth. Numbers never lied, and there they were, staring Larry and him right in the face.

“Alright, I understand,” said Larry, going silent for a fraction of a second. When Charlie finally did glance up his friend had his palms facing forward in surrender. He considered Charlie thoughtfully, a finger tapping out morse code on his chin. “But math,” he advised, “as beautiful a mistress as she indeed is, cannot distract you from your life forever. Your problems will come full circle eventually.”

Thirteen steps this time, before Charlie even had a chance to reply; and then he was left alone with his numbers. They were, for once, quite silent.


--

As much as he was a genius, Charlie was also aware that he was unbelievably, indescribably inept.

In his opinion, math applied to most every situation. Movement, behavior, human potential – math could predict it all. It let him see connections that almost no one else could see, and in turn he could help others to realize those same connections. And a good mathematician didn't just apply the rules of mathematics to its practice, but to the practice of life itself. It gave him an edge at sports, helped him aid Don in investigations. Math was his haven, his way to usefulness.

But although math itself was perfect, he was not, and sometimes he miscalculated; sometimes he made errors, or missed a variable altogether. When this variable came to light, he couldn't just ignore it. It mattered. It changed things. And unlike his problem on the board, the answer to which he knew would become apparent to him someway, somehow, eventually, he wasn't sure if there was even a solution to this problem for him to find.

Could he live like this forever? Never knowing what would be on the other side of the equal sign?


--

Things went well for him the next day. The problem on the board still refused to unravel, but he made significant progress with a personal project he'd been working on, and for the first time in days there was a hint of a smile on his face. As such, he forgot to be apprehensive when his phone rang, forgot that he'd decided to avoid the world (especially specific persons that inhabited it), and he flipped it open.

His energy waned immediately as he heard Don's voice chattering excitedly on the other end. “I've got a case we could really use your help on, Charlie. It's an in—”

“Don, I really don't think I can help you out on this one,” he interrupted quietly before Don could get any further. Before Charlie could get interested.

“Now wait, Charlie, hold on a sec,” Don persisted. “This is good, I swear. You'll like it. It's an investment broker—”

“Don,” he said firmly. “Listen to me. I can't help you.”

“Well, why not? Do you have another lecture?” Don sounded confused and a little put out, like Charlie was purposefully ruining his fun. Their fun. But this was for the best, and Charlie knew it.

“Yes, I – I do,” he said. “A lot of them.” And he would, by tomorrow. “Actually, I don't think I'll be able to come around and consult for you much from now on. I'm getting really busy.”

“What?” his brother demanded, alarmed. “Charlie, you—”

“Don, I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I hope you understand.” He closed his eyes and clicked the phone shut, ignoring it when it started to ring again a few moments later.

There was no progress in his research at all after that.


--

“What's going on with Chuck?”

He'd been on his way up the stairs, but he paused at that – at Don's distinct voice echoing from the kitchen, assaulting his ears. Don had come for dinner, and probably for an explanation. Alan gave him the food, but Charlie had nothing to offer.

He wished there were some way to quantify Don's emotions (frustration + understanding – actual comprehension = pity), but the world just didn't seem to work that way.

His father's voice joined Don's, a different mixture of emotions altogether, just as foreign to Charlie.

“Not eating.”

“Again?” Don sounded disbelieving (annoyance + frustration – (understanding + actual comprehension) = pity and exasperation?). “Do you at least know why this time?”

“Do I ever know why? At least when your mother died, we knew the reason he went AWOL – ” A sharp intake of breath; Charlie didn't know whose. “But now... Now he's just shutting down.”

Quietly, hesitantly, “P vs NP?”

“Not this time.”

“Why does he – ” (exasperation – (understanding + actual comprehension + annoyance) = helplessness?), “do shit like this?”

“Your brother is beyond explanation, Don. You know this.”

There was a small sigh. “He doesn't want to work with us anymore. My supervisors'll be extremely unhappy.”

“You mean you'll be unhappy?”

A pause. “Well, you know... Yeah. He's good. He knows the answers. He helps.”

“You like having him there.”

“That too.”

“He's your brother. He worships the ground you walk on. Tell him you like having him around. It might bring him out of this slump.”

“Do you think it was something I did? Do you think working with the FBI is...” (hesitancy + exasperation – (understanding + actual comprehension) = guilt?), “too much for him?”

“Donnie, your brother doesn't live in this world.” That stung, admittedly. “The problem could be anything. You should talk to him.”

“I would,” Their voices came closer, accompanied by footsteps. Charlie had a foot poised on the next step up, ready to run if they got too close, “but I don't think he'd listen. I just don't. He's Charlie. He knows best, I guess. I don't know what to do, Dad.”

(resignation + weariness + frustration – (understanding + actual comprehension) = sorrow)

He fled.


--

Sometimes he felt like Alan was right. The world he lived in wasn't conscious reality, but his own. He existed inside his head.

It was more than just the math, as much as anything could be more than math (everything was math). It was as if everyone else was preprogrammed and he was running on manual, desperately trying to steer himself through emotions that seemed to come to others so easily. Eventually he just gave up navigating their course altogether.

Alan wanted him to keep trying. Screamed it silently with every fiber of his being. His conversation with Don, pushing Don, was just an expression of that. But Alan was Alan – an entirely different creature from him or Don, with flat, black and white views of the world and the people in it.

Don had night vision, and Charlie could see colors that weren't even supposed to exist. But what good was it if there was no one there to watch them with?


--

In the end, he collapsed in the middle of a lecture. It didn't take much to bring him to, but in the meantime Larry had called Don, and Don insisted on taking him to the hospital. Amita wanted to come along, but Charlie heard Larry tell her that it was a family affair when they thought he couldn't hear.

They gave him an IV and a plate of greasy hospital food. The doctor sat by his bedside and watched him eat, while Don kept a reassuring hand on his hair and looked away.

Alan stalked in like a whirlwind about an hour later. He scoffed when the doctor said “eating disorder,” but after the man had gone, he turned to Charlie, his face red with disappointment.

“You are a thirty-year-old mathematician, Charlie,” he said sadly. “Eating disorders are for fourteen-year-old girls. Why are you doing this? What's wrong?”

“He doesn't have an eating disorder,” Don argued before Charlie could speak up. “He's been stressed. That doctor is an idiot.”

Alan took a deep breath and lowered himself into a chair. He looked between them, analyzing them both. “I'm going to ask once,” he said, “and I want Charlie to be the one to answer me.” He held up his hand when Don opened his mouth, and then he turned to Charlie. “Do you have an eating disorder, Charlie? If you do, we'll get you the help you need. But you need to tell me.”

Charlie stared silently until Don nudged him. “Come on, Charlie. Answer.”

Charlie had always wondered what the easiest way to die would be. Not the most effective way, because this could be measured; he could know this. He'd wanted to know what the least painful way to pass out of existence was, the least unpleasant. He'd wondered if it would be easier to drown or to starve to death. Now it felt like he was doing both at once.

Eating disorder? He was just trying to keep his head above water.


--

When Charlie told him no, Alan left. He tried to get Don to go home and get some sleep as well, but Don insisted on staying. The doctors were keeping Charlie overnight to even things out. They sat without speaking as the sun set behind the window, and eventually Don pushed on his shoulder and said, “Shove over.” Charlie sat up and scooted to the right to make room.

Don studied him, expression serious and unreadable. Charlie's skin started to itch under the scrutiny, and he ducked his head and asked, “What?”

Don pursed his lips. “You lying, Charlie? About the eating disorder?”

“I wasn't,” he said immediately.

“Charlie.” He felt Don lean against his shoulder, felt hot breath on his neck. “I want you to be okay, bud. You've gotta...admit the problem for that to happen.”

If there was one person in the world that Charlie trusted, it was Don. Don was always there for him, even when he wasn't, even after he'd run halfway across the country, because he inevitably came back to him. And if there was one person on earth that would understand feeling lost, it was his brother.

He tucked his arms around himself and took a deep breath.

“I'm...” he said, “I don't. Have an eating disorder. I'm just...not doing so well right now, Don.”

“Why not?”

How the hell could he explain it? “The – the numbers are gone, Don.”

Don looked confused. “The numbers? You mean, like, your job? You didn't get fired, did you?”

“No, no, my job is fine. It's the actual numbers that I'm talking about. They're not enough anymore,” he explained. “I don't dream about them anymore. I'm...drowning.”

For a few moments, Don only stared, and Charlie was worried that he'd said too much, said something he shouldn't have (he'd never been skilled at knowing the shoulds and shouldn'ts), but then Don started to speak again.

“What does every drowning person need?” he asked.

Charlie chuckled without even thinking about it. “Better luck?”

“Cute,” Don said with a wry smile. “They need a life jacket. To keep them above water.”

“That would be more helpful if it wasn't a metaphor,” he laughed.

Don shrugged. “Then you need a metaphorical life jacket. That can be me, you know.”

“You?” he repeated. A strange feeling tightened in his chest.

“Me,” Don nodded. “You feel like you're drowning, or you haven't got your numbers, you come see me. We'll have a sandwich and watch crappy movies. That's gotta be better than starving yourself, right?”

Charlie turned to Don. “It wouldn't be an intrusion?”

Don flashed him a grin. “You're my brother. Always have been. What do you think?”

Charlie thought he'd never loved anyone more in his life.

Somehow they ended up lying back together, tight against each other. Charlie felt like he was floating. His eyes moved over Don's face, counting the fine lines that wrinkled around his eyes. Don's hand found its way over to stroke the top of his head, and he leaned into the touch.

“Don?” he whispered.

Don's head turned. “Yeah?” he whispered back.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Emotions flitted over Don's face quickly, until finally he nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he breathed.

So Charlie kissed him once, and they smiled and looked away from each other. Eventually they slept, wrapped together. Don talked to the doctor when he came back. After Charlie was discharged, Don took him out for a big breakfast, of which he ate every bite. And for the first time in a long time, he could breathe again.


--

Once, soon after he came home from the hospital, Charlie dreamt that he was Alice. He followed a rabbit to see where it went and ended up careening down a dark hole. On the way down were all the things he knew, and all the things he wanted to know, and all the things he'd never get to know.

He saw the faces of the people he loved. His father tried to catch him and failed, his mother looked on sadly and told him that she'd fallen too, and Larry explained why it was that he continued traveling downward at the rate that he did. But none of them could save him, and so down he went.

He fell headfirst into a sea of numbers. He flailed, gasping, choking on them, but strong arms grabbed him and dragged him out of the waves. He sat in Don's arms on the shore, staring out at the setting sun, and together they rested.

Don turned to him, eyes soft, after the sky had darkened. “What do you see?” he asked.

And Charlie smiled up at him and whispered into his ear, “I see the world.”