Still Life With Chalk Dust
Title: Still Life With Chalk Dust
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,187 words
Summary: As much as Charlie idolizes Don's ability to cope, he's terrified of it.
Warnings: Fluff. Schmoop. Angst. Incest. Me bullshitting my way through the FBI and higher math. Thigh rigs. The present tense. Other fun stuff.
Notes: This is my first foray into Numb3rs fanfic. I'm pretty much just playing with the characters, still, so nuanced things like, say, perspective? Are not so clear. I also can't be expected to know practical things like precisely how they wound up in Charlie's office, or why nobody stopped by with a hearty, "WTF?" My eternal thanks go to the gorgeous and talented __dtrain for her presence as beta and bouncing board. <3
Still Life With Chalk Dust
Don is so immediately hot off the case that he still has gum in his mouth. His hands are just now starting to shake in a delayed reaction to the adrenaline rush that no-one is allowed to see, but Charlie could care less, especially since he's shaking just as severely, but all over. He presses his hands down Don's arms, legs, and torso, works his way back up and starts unfastening things like he's performing a strip-search, even though a) that's Don's thing and b) Don keeps saying "I'm fine, Charlie, I'm okay, I promise" - because Charlie wants to believe him, he does, but he just-he can't; he needs empirical proof. He drops the tactical armor onto a pile of half-graded test papers, yanks Don's shirt out of his waistband and unbuttons it. Don's the one who realizes they're going to topple the desk if Charlie doesn't stop pressing forward like he is, like he miscalculated the distance between them and his brain hasn't yet figured it out and told his legs, so Don's the one who angles around the desk and Charlie follows, completely oblivious until they hit the chalkboard.
Charlie looks up at Don for a long, long moment, then down at Don's undershirt half-pulled-up in his hands, and then he wraps his arms around Don's waist and buries his face in his brother's neck. Whatever he says, it's muffled beyond recognition, but Don gets the gist and rubs his palm over Charlie's back. It was a bad chase; worse than any of them had expected, because sometimes these things just happen; sometimes the guy is crouching in the one place you don't look first and he gets you, and while Don's surprised enough that he got away with only a few bruises, and he knows he's going to have to figure out what went wrong and where, he also knows that right now is not the time for him to do that, because right now his little brother needs him. Charlie needs him. And he's freaking out enough for the both of them.
"Charlie… Charlie. Hey. Shh… Hey, look at me. Charlie." Don strokes the sticky-damp stubbled cheek at his shoulder and lifts Charlie's face up. "I'm here." As soon as Charlie notices his face is cool with evaporating tears, he pushes away from Don and starts raking the chalkboard with his eyes. He ducks his head and rubs his eyebrow, prepares to say something, and that's Don's cue to get between him and the chalkboard and say, "Charlie, this one had nothing to do with your math. It couldn't have. It was just … dumb luck."
"Dumb luck." Charlie snorts derisively and refuses to look at Don, focusing instead on the geomolecular model he'd been using as a paperweight before they knocked it over, as though it might contain some spark of epiphanic wisdom. Or as though he wants to explode it with his mind, Don can't tell for sure. Neither one is very promising, but neither one seems very likely, so he decides to wait it out. Eventually Charlie looks up at him again, the same way he did before, and time freezes, and a lost little voice says, "Don, I was so afraid."
Don opens his arms, and Charlie crashes into him. It's nothing like the embrace before; this one is all about the desperation buzzing electrically through Charlie's long, lean muscles as he presses his body against Don's just as hard and as thoroughly as he can. When his face falls to Don's neck, it's to lick and suck - not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to prove to himself that Don's still there, still alive. Still tasting like gunfire and sweat and dirty warehouse floors, like he always does - even more so after a raid like this, but over the years it's just worked its way into his skin; that's what the FBI does to a person. As much as Charlie idolizes Don's ability to cope, he's terrified of it.
Charlie moves around to Don's side, tilting his head into the hand that Don weaves in his hair and pushing his palm down Don's belly, meticulously feeling out every hard-earned muscle. He moves his hand lower, over the front of Don's jeans, and Don bites off a low, sharp noise and tightens his arm around Charlie's shoulder. Don needs Charlie, too; Don's just as hard as he is, and Charlie moans as he grinds against Don's hip - against Don's gun in the thigh rig. It's another harsh reminder of how close a line to death Don walks, every day, and it makes Charlie whimper and dig into Don's obliques with his fingernails, but they're trimmed short for the chalkboard so instead of hurting Don they just make him turn his head and his shoulders and kiss Charlie with everything from lust to apology. Charlie takes the kiss, inhales it, devours it, and he kisses Don back with his own version of the same message. He unclips the two thigh rigs and unbuckles Don's belt, then raises his arms so Don can pull the tee shirt off and drop it somewhere on the floor. Don's jeans hit the floor next, though he catches his sidearm and sets it on the desk. Charlie reaches underneath Don's arm and rattles around for a second in the drawer, then holds up a small tube of lubricant with such a sheepish, wicked smile that Don can't decide whether to burst out laughing or to kiss him; he does both, hooking his thumbs into Charlie's waistband and tugging. "I want to fuck you," Charlie whispers, breathless, as he shimmies out of his pants and boxers, and there's no way in Hell Don can say no to his little brother.
Charlie fucks him against the chalkboard, deep and short and slow, clutching onto Don's shoulders and letting his forehead fall to Don's collarbone. Don runs his fingers down the ridge of his brother's spine, holds Charlie's hips and turns his face so he can smell the sweat and shampoo in Charlie's hair. When Charlie bites his lip and goes up on his tip-toes Don reaches down to his own cock, so that he and Charlie match each other gasp for gasp as they climax.
"You know you're pretty good at that," Don mutters after they've both caught their breath.
"I learned from the best," Charlie answers with a floppy smirk, and ducks when Don swats at him.
They don't need to say anything else about what has happened, about what happens every time Don goes out in the field, every time Charlie hears gunshots over the radio system, every time Don sees Charlie lock himself up in his math scrawlings. Neither of them need to mention the fact that gunpowder and chalk dust can smell eerily similar; they both know. They'll go home now; Charlie will heat some leftovers or they'll order a pizza with sausage, peppers, and onions; the three of them will exchange witty banter over the dinner table; the Eppes' will be a normal family. Relatively normal.
Because that's life.
---
My Two Cents:
I swear, I need feedback like some people need Mountain Dew. That is: it's a great thing to have when I'm feeling down and out, is yellow and fizzy and makes me happy. Or maybe that actually is Mountain Dew. Either way, I'm a fandom first-timer and a general woobie, so if you'd let me know how I'm doing I'd very greatly appreciate it.
Ta,
-M
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,187 words
Summary: As much as Charlie idolizes Don's ability to cope, he's terrified of it.
Warnings: Fluff. Schmoop. Angst. Incest. Me bullshitting my way through the FBI and higher math. Thigh rigs. The present tense. Other fun stuff.
Notes: This is my first foray into Numb3rs fanfic. I'm pretty much just playing with the characters, still, so nuanced things like, say, perspective? Are not so clear. I also can't be expected to know practical things like precisely how they wound up in Charlie's office, or why nobody stopped by with a hearty, "WTF?" My eternal thanks go to the gorgeous and talented __dtrain for her presence as beta and bouncing board. <3
Still Life With Chalk Dust
Don is so immediately hot off the case that he still has gum in his mouth. His hands are just now starting to shake in a delayed reaction to the adrenaline rush that no-one is allowed to see, but Charlie could care less, especially since he's shaking just as severely, but all over. He presses his hands down Don's arms, legs, and torso, works his way back up and starts unfastening things like he's performing a strip-search, even though a) that's Don's thing and b) Don keeps saying "I'm fine, Charlie, I'm okay, I promise" - because Charlie wants to believe him, he does, but he just-he can't; he needs empirical proof. He drops the tactical armor onto a pile of half-graded test papers, yanks Don's shirt out of his waistband and unbuttons it. Don's the one who realizes they're going to topple the desk if Charlie doesn't stop pressing forward like he is, like he miscalculated the distance between them and his brain hasn't yet figured it out and told his legs, so Don's the one who angles around the desk and Charlie follows, completely oblivious until they hit the chalkboard.
Charlie looks up at Don for a long, long moment, then down at Don's undershirt half-pulled-up in his hands, and then he wraps his arms around Don's waist and buries his face in his brother's neck. Whatever he says, it's muffled beyond recognition, but Don gets the gist and rubs his palm over Charlie's back. It was a bad chase; worse than any of them had expected, because sometimes these things just happen; sometimes the guy is crouching in the one place you don't look first and he gets you, and while Don's surprised enough that he got away with only a few bruises, and he knows he's going to have to figure out what went wrong and where, he also knows that right now is not the time for him to do that, because right now his little brother needs him. Charlie needs him. And he's freaking out enough for the both of them.
"Charlie… Charlie. Hey. Shh… Hey, look at me. Charlie." Don strokes the sticky-damp stubbled cheek at his shoulder and lifts Charlie's face up. "I'm here." As soon as Charlie notices his face is cool with evaporating tears, he pushes away from Don and starts raking the chalkboard with his eyes. He ducks his head and rubs his eyebrow, prepares to say something, and that's Don's cue to get between him and the chalkboard and say, "Charlie, this one had nothing to do with your math. It couldn't have. It was just … dumb luck."
"Dumb luck." Charlie snorts derisively and refuses to look at Don, focusing instead on the geomolecular model he'd been using as a paperweight before they knocked it over, as though it might contain some spark of epiphanic wisdom. Or as though he wants to explode it with his mind, Don can't tell for sure. Neither one is very promising, but neither one seems very likely, so he decides to wait it out. Eventually Charlie looks up at him again, the same way he did before, and time freezes, and a lost little voice says, "Don, I was so afraid."
Don opens his arms, and Charlie crashes into him. It's nothing like the embrace before; this one is all about the desperation buzzing electrically through Charlie's long, lean muscles as he presses his body against Don's just as hard and as thoroughly as he can. When his face falls to Don's neck, it's to lick and suck - not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to prove to himself that Don's still there, still alive. Still tasting like gunfire and sweat and dirty warehouse floors, like he always does - even more so after a raid like this, but over the years it's just worked its way into his skin; that's what the FBI does to a person. As much as Charlie idolizes Don's ability to cope, he's terrified of it.
Charlie moves around to Don's side, tilting his head into the hand that Don weaves in his hair and pushing his palm down Don's belly, meticulously feeling out every hard-earned muscle. He moves his hand lower, over the front of Don's jeans, and Don bites off a low, sharp noise and tightens his arm around Charlie's shoulder. Don needs Charlie, too; Don's just as hard as he is, and Charlie moans as he grinds against Don's hip - against Don's gun in the thigh rig. It's another harsh reminder of how close a line to death Don walks, every day, and it makes Charlie whimper and dig into Don's obliques with his fingernails, but they're trimmed short for the chalkboard so instead of hurting Don they just make him turn his head and his shoulders and kiss Charlie with everything from lust to apology. Charlie takes the kiss, inhales it, devours it, and he kisses Don back with his own version of the same message. He unclips the two thigh rigs and unbuckles Don's belt, then raises his arms so Don can pull the tee shirt off and drop it somewhere on the floor. Don's jeans hit the floor next, though he catches his sidearm and sets it on the desk. Charlie reaches underneath Don's arm and rattles around for a second in the drawer, then holds up a small tube of lubricant with such a sheepish, wicked smile that Don can't decide whether to burst out laughing or to kiss him; he does both, hooking his thumbs into Charlie's waistband and tugging. "I want to fuck you," Charlie whispers, breathless, as he shimmies out of his pants and boxers, and there's no way in Hell Don can say no to his little brother.
Charlie fucks him against the chalkboard, deep and short and slow, clutching onto Don's shoulders and letting his forehead fall to Don's collarbone. Don runs his fingers down the ridge of his brother's spine, holds Charlie's hips and turns his face so he can smell the sweat and shampoo in Charlie's hair. When Charlie bites his lip and goes up on his tip-toes Don reaches down to his own cock, so that he and Charlie match each other gasp for gasp as they climax.
"You know you're pretty good at that," Don mutters after they've both caught their breath.
"I learned from the best," Charlie answers with a floppy smirk, and ducks when Don swats at him.
They don't need to say anything else about what has happened, about what happens every time Don goes out in the field, every time Charlie hears gunshots over the radio system, every time Don sees Charlie lock himself up in his math scrawlings. Neither of them need to mention the fact that gunpowder and chalk dust can smell eerily similar; they both know. They'll go home now; Charlie will heat some leftovers or they'll order a pizza with sausage, peppers, and onions; the three of them will exchange witty banter over the dinner table; the Eppes' will be a normal family. Relatively normal.
Because that's life.
---
My Two Cents:
I swear, I need feedback like some people need Mountain Dew. That is: it's a great thing to have when I'm feeling down and out, is yellow and fizzy and makes me happy. Or maybe that actually is Mountain Dew. Either way, I'm a fandom first-timer and a general woobie, so if you'd let me know how I'm doing I'd very greatly appreciate it.
Ta,
-M