Numb3rs Fic: Concussion Watch
Title: Concussion Watch
Word Count: 2,550
A/N: An exercise on Colby Granger when I should really be working on Two Brothers. Rough, unbeta'ed, and unplanned. You have been warned.
Summary: Colby saves his boss's little brother.
Don got the call after lunch, answered it with his customary “Yeah, Eppes,” and then said, “Charlie - wait, slow down.”
Colby saw him freeze, saw his face go rigid. Saw him stand up.
“Charlie,” Don said, slowly and deliberately. “Listen to me, okay? Where is the intruder, exactly?”
Intruder. Colby stood up, as slowly and as deliberately as Don had, feeling his muscles tense and coil. Behind him, he felt David rising too, in that slow and methodical way. Over by the board, Liz carefully turned her head, her face just as still as the rest of them.
Don said, “Where are you?” and then “Does he have a gun?” and Colby, who was standing closest, saw the answer in Don’s face. Don started walking, heading rapidly for the stairs.
“Charlie,” he said tensely. “Charlie, don’t let him see you, understand? Stay where you are. We’re coming, all right?”
David caught up to Don and snagged the Suburban’s keys from his hand; turned and tossed them to Colby.
“Run,” he said.
One thing about Colby, aside from being a decent investigator and excellent team player (something not every investigator can claim), is that he can run. He’s been involved in more foot chases than he can count, but he can count the ones he’s lost on one hand, and every one of those had an element of bad luck to it.
After a while, that became part of his job. David would run with him, but it was Colby’s job to catch.
So Colby caught the keys and ran, charging down the stairs and out the doors and flying full out towards Don’s parking spot.
He picked the rest of the team up as they charged out the doors, and it was fortunate that Colby was a good driver as well as a good runner because otherwise they might have wasted time trading seats. As it was, Don piled willingly into the passenger side and Colby floored it before the doors were even shut, checking his gun with one hand and sending the Suburban skidding around a turn.
It was a ten minute drive on a normal day.
Colby turned on the lights and sirens and they made it there in four, but two minutes in Don lost Charlie on the phone.
Don shouted his brother’s name frantically and swore bitterly when there was no reply, and Colby tried in vain to make the SUV go faster.
They squealed to a stop outside of Don’s father’s house and flung themselves out, guns up and at the ready. Don charged towards the garage shouting “Charlie! Charlie!”
Colby moved to follow, but a flash of movement far down the shadowy street caught his attention.
“Don!” Colby shouted. Then, “Charlie!”
Don whirled and Colby took off. Up ahead, a big man - bigger than Colby himself - dragged a smaller man alongside him, aiming for a waiting car. Charlie was dragging his feet, slowing the man down.
But there was something wrong. Charlie didn’t look like he was balking, he looked like he was barely hanging on to consciousness.
The man reached the car and shoved his captive inside. Someone inside helped him, grabbing Charlie by the upper arms and dragging him roughly over the front seat. Colby saw Charlie kick once, weakly.
Colby was almost there. He readied his gun in his right hand, because he wasn’t going to risk stopping and shooting - not with Charlie in there.
The abductor got into the car beside him and slammed shut the door. The engine gunned, roared, the car’s tires squealed on the road, and Colby hit the side of the car going full speed and struck at the window with the butt of his gun. Glass shattered and sprayed everywhere, and Colby shut his eyes and scrambled to get a grip on the seat. The car didn’t stop, wrenching him up and off his feet, dragging him as it spun its wheels and caught traction.
Colby scrabbled desperately and lunged forward. The driver looked at him in shock and surprise and swerved, and Colby lost his grip. The big man in the passenger seat grabbed hold of him and violently shoved him away.
Colby hit the ground and rolled, felt his head bounce on the ground. He came to rest on his stomach, head spinning, blood rushing through his ears. He dimly heard the cacophonous sound of metal crunching metal, and struggled to raise his head.
“Colby!” someone said, and Colby opened his eyes, lifted his head. The world seemed to spin around him. Someone put a hand on his shoulder. “Colby?”
“David?” Colby asked, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy.
“Yeah, you okay buddy?”
“No,” Colby mumbled, and put his head back down. “Charlie…”
“Don’s getting him,” David said. “The crash wasn’t bad - they were only going about fifteen when they hit.”
“We got him?” Colby asked.
“Yeah,” David said, and he sounded like he was smiling but Colby couldn’t really tell. His vision didn’t seem to want to clear up. “You got him, buddy.”
“Oh,” Colby said, and let his cheek rest on the asphalt.
“We’ve got the paramedics coming, Colby,” David said, patting Colby’s shoulder. “Hang tight, okay?”
Colby didn’t answer, concentrating on deep, even breaths and trying to make the world stop spinning. After a while he gave up and just closed his eyes, listened to the incomprehensible babble of voices, the painful reverberations of ambulance sirens as they approached. At one point, someone came over and crouched beside him.
“How is he?” they asked, and Colby realized it was Don.
“He was awake,” David replied, “but he definitely hit his head. I keep trying to wake him up again but it’s a no go.”
So that was what that annoying tapping had been, Colby thought. Huh. He blinked open his eyes and winced at the stab of pain that went through his head. He groaned.
“Hey there, Col,” Don said, resting his hand on Colby’s other shoulder. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” Colby managed. “What about Charlie?”
“Concussed,” Don replied. “He’ll be fine. He actually looks quite a bit like you, minus all the bleeding.”
“Huh?” Colby asked eloquently. “Bleeding?”
“From the glass,” Don provided. “Hey!” he called. “Over here!”
Colby winced and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn his head so his eyes were to the ground. He noticed then that someone had thoughtfully put a jacket under his head, and blinked in surprise.
“Sorry, Colby,” Don apologized. “Calling the paramedics over. They’ll get you all set up.”
“Not the hospital?” Colby asked, aggrieved, and Don patted his back gently.
“Just for a while, to get you looked over,” he said consolingly. “Rest now. I’m going to go check on Charlie.”
“Okay,” Colby mumbled.
“And Colby?” Don said, crouching down a little lower. Colby opened his eyes again. “You saved my little brother,” Don said quietly. “Thank you.”
“Mmm,” Colby said, and closed his eyes once more. Don’s hand left his back as he went away, and a pair of paramedics came over and took his place.
At that point, Colby drifted again.
He came to as they rolled him over onto his back, onto a stretcher. The movement made his head throb murderously and nausea swirl in his stomach. He managed to slide his eyes open a crack but his vision wasn’t any clearer than before. He thought he saw David, over to the side as they lifted the stretcher onto the gurney and rolled him to the waiting ambulance. He closed his eyes against the pain.
Someone slapped annoyingly at his cheeks. Colby grunted and opened his eyes again.
“Sir, you need to stay awake,” the annoying paramedic said. “Don’t fall asleep sir.”
Colby scowled because he was an FBI agent and he could do whatever he damned well pleased. He wanted to tell the paramedic that but he really was awfully tired and chose to close his eyes again instead.
The paramedic slapped his cheeks again.
“Fuck…off,” Colby growled, and thought he heard David give a short, sharp bark of laughter from somewhere off to the side, out of Colby’s field of vision. Colby tried to glare at the paramedic and was met with a friendly grin. Colby resolutely closed his eyes, and the paramedic slapped him again.
“Stay awake, sir,” the paramedic said unapologetically. “I know you’re tired, and I know things are probably confusing right now, but I really need you to stay awake. I want to help you, and it’s dangerous to sleep right now.”
Colby wanted to tell him to fuck off again, but his stomach was making its displeasure known at all the jolting he was going through, and he groaned instead. His face must have turned green because the paramedic leapt to his feet as if burned and grabbed for a container, shouting “He’s going to vomit!” at his partner.
Said partner grabbed Colby’s shoulder and propped him up on his side, but then Colby stopped noticing things like that and just gagged miserably.
When it seemed like he was finished they let him back down onto his back, and that damned paramedic (Colby was going to find him when he felt better) kept him awake all the way to the hospital and all the way to his room. Colby mentally promised retribution as the two of them waved cheerfully at him and went away.
Then there was a seemingly endless progression of white-coated doctors and nurses, and they all asked him what happened (“I hit my head rescuing my boss’s brother.”), who the current president was (“Clinton.”), and what his birthday was, (“Clinton’s? Um, I don’t know.”). A few asked him to rate the discomfort he was in on a scale from one-to-ten, and Colby could only stare at him in blank bewilderment because really, a pain scale?
Then someone came and cleaned up his arms, which were covered in gashes from the broken glass, cleaned up his head (which hurt), and finally, finally let him sleep.
For a little while.
-----
Someone shook his shoulder again and Colby came awake cursing thickly with a tongue that felt swollen. David stood grinning down at him.
“C’mon, Col,” he said. “They’re letting us take you home.”
“Oh good,” Colby said, and sat up. His head swam and he was suddenly grateful for David’s hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” he said, seeing the waiting wheelchair. “I forgot about that…I think I’ll stay here.”
“C’mon, Colby,” David laughed. “You’re going to the Eppes’s house, where there are three of us to do concussion watch on you and Charlie. Alan’s there now, making apple crumble even though it’s three in the morning.”
That sounded nice. Colby hesitated, undecided, and finally nodded and even let David keep his hand under his elbow while he got into the wheelchair. He was wheeled out to Don’s waiting Suburban, where Don and Liz were loading a wobbly Charlie into the front seat.
“Hey Colby,” Don said, coming around to help.
“Hi Don,” Colby answered sleepily. “Hi Charlie.”
Charlie mumbled something that sounded like a greeting, and Colby peacefully let himself be manhandled into the SUV.
He fell asleep during the drive to the Eppes residence, waking up long enough to stumble ungracefully into the house, then crashed on the couch and was out like a light.
David woke him two hours later. He came awake to a blinding headache and a stomach heaving with nausea, and the gentle shaking was the end of it. Colby groaned, rolled over, and threw up.
There was an exclamation from David, who hopped backwards several steps, but nothing really came up except a little bit of stomach acid. Colby flopped back down on his back and flung his arm over his eyes.
“Don’t shake me,” he croaked, and went back to sleep.
Don woke him next, asked him the required questions, (“I hit my head. George Bush. 3/13/73.”), and let him go back to sleep. The cycle continued over and over, until Colby could come half-way awake, mumble the requisite answers, and go right back to sleep.
He woke on his own in the late afternoon, and laid there for a while. The house was very quiet, and he had to go to the bathroom. He took a moment to assess everything, noting that, although his head still ached, his stomach thankfully seemed to have settled.
He sat up slowly, hoping that the movement wouldn’t trigger any blinding pain or nausea, but it seemed like that had passed. He swung his legs around and stretched gingerly, looking at his bandaged arms in interest.
There were tentative footprints on the stairs, and then Charlie appeared. He was a mess, covered in bruises and with hair standing up like he’d been electrocuted (something in Colby’s subconscious recognized it as a result of restless sleep). There was a series of butterfly bands on his temple, where he’d initially been struck.
“Hi Charlie,” Colby said, and was surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.
“Hey Colby,” Charlie replied, sounding just as bad. “I need water. You want some?”
“Yes,” Colby said. “Thanks. Where is everybody?”
“Out back, I think,” Charlie muttered as he headed into the kitchen. He emerged a moment later with two cold bottles of water, handing one to Colby and lowering himself gingerly onto the couch. Colby took a very small sip of water, fearing another vomiting episode.
“Did you throw up?” Charlie asked, seeming to read his mind.
“Twice,” Colby said. “In the ambulance, and last night on David’s shoes.”
“Three times,” Charlie returned, sounding aggrieved. “Once just after he hit me, once all over myself when we crashed, and once at the hospital.”
“Yum,” Colby said, grinning at him. “Do you have any ice?”
“Way ahead of you,” Charlie smiled back, and lifted his other hand, holding two ice packs. Colby accepted one with a groan of relief and put it gingerly on the side of his head, grateful to just sit there for a while and let the cold chase away the throbbing ache.
“Hey Colby?” Charlie said quietly.
“Mmm?”
“I saw you, you know. Running after me, I mean. I remember the glass…” he lifted his arms, spotted with white patches. “And…well…”
“Don’t mention it,” Colby mumbled. “Anything for the whiz kid. Whatever happened to that apple crumble that David promised me?”
They heard the kitchen door open then, several sets of feet stomping through. Don poked his head around to see how Colby was doing, and his eyes lit up when he saw Charlie.
“You’re awake!” he said, and pulled his head back into the kitchen. “They’re awake!” they heard him say again, and then Don, Alan, David, Liz, Larry, and Amita came rushing in.
“How are you feeling?”
“Do your heads hurt?”
“Are you thirsty?”
“Not feeling nauseas, I hope?”
“Hungry?”
“So glad to see you awake…”
“Get enough sleep?”
“Whoa,” Charlie said weakly, and the room went silent. “Um. Colby wants apple crumble,” he mumbled, and Alan, Liz, and Amita fought each other into the kitchen. Don came over and stood behind them, a hand on each one’s shoulder.
“Not nauseas, then?” David asked hopefully from where he stood out of vomiting distance.
“No, I’m good,” Colby said, and gingerly adjusted his ice pack.