33: fan fic { numb3rs } : "waiting for my real life to begin" [don/charlie/amita]
title. waiting for my real life to begin
author. nv
fandom. numb3rs
characters. don eppes(/charlie eppes/amita ramanujan)
rating. nc-17
genre. angst
warnings. slash, incest, threesome, pathologizing
word count. 5117
summary. therapy begins to work its magic on don.
feedback. is the reason i do this.
challenge. "waiting" for team angst (numb3rswriteoff)
beta. sororcula :D
disclaimer. the characters and canon contained herein are the property of cheryl heuton and nicolas falacci, as well as any associated writers, producers, networks, and parent companies. the following was written by neur0 vanity. no copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at numb3rswriteoff. After you’ve read the fic, please rate it by voting here. (Your comment will be screened.) Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt (waiting), how angsty the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you’re done, please check out the other challenge fic at numb3rswriteoff. Thank you!
Any minute now, my ship is coming in.
I'll keep checking the horizon.
I'll stand on the bow...
I'm waiting for my real life to begin.
- Colin Hay
You think you know. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like. Sixteen-hour days, constantly on-call, your eyes blurring and crossing from reading the same document, the same screen, over and over again in the hopes of finding the tiniest detail that would blow the case open, and all those details become rote memory, every crime in all its insidiousness coming to life in Technicolor and surround sound in your nightmares. You don’t know what it’s like. Guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder. Getting so deep into the mind of a criminal that you understand his motives, and sometimes, you begin to empathize, and sometimes, you start to wonder if it could be you. You start to wonder if it could be you because with all the pressure and control compiling with all the chaos and the things you’ve seen (mutilated bodies, raped children), the things you’ve done (killing a man, killing a woman, would you kill a child if it came down to it?)…. When Bradford says you’re in a high-risk situation, he’s not referring to your job; he’s talking about your mind, and he’s gently warning you to stay out of your head. He doesn’t say what the consequences might be; he doesn’t have to because you already know. But you - civilians - don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like. So when you’re at a bar and see him - Don Eppes - throwing back the drinks, you don’t get to say “slow down.” You don’t have the right. Because you don’t know.
He’s not an alcoholic. He can stop when he wants to. He can have just one or two. He’s done it countless times before. He can stop when he wants to, and he usually stops early because he knows that the call could come in at any minute, and while he can do his job with one beer in his bloodstream, the ghost of a buzz tickling his nerves, he can’t do it with six or eight or twelve. He can stop when he wants to, and it’s not about having willpower (he’s run into enough addicts to know that it’s not because they don’t have willpower; they’ve got enough willpower to turn over trucks for their drug of choice); it’s because he doesn’t have the disease - his brain’s not fucked like that. He can stop when he wants to, but tonight, he doesn’t want to. Tonight, he’s having that allergic reaction, and one just isn’t enough. Or six. Or eight. Or twelve.
They buried his father on Wednesday, and he was put on leave. It was temporary leave - “take however long you need” - but that first day drove him so stir-crazy that he was calling David to find out what they were doing and saying he was going to come in. Beneath the initial gut reaction to just respond, act on autopilot and jump into action, there was an arrogant belief and fear that everything would fall apart without him, like criminals would be worse knowing that he wasn’t on the job, like every heinous act an individual committed would be personal to the great Don Eppes. Things would fall apart at work without him, and Charlie would fall apart at home without him (because everything is about Don. Don, Don, Don. Me, me, me. No, really - it’s all about me), and in the brief time it took to tell David he was going to come into the field office, he was already formulating a plot to bring Charlie into the mix (even though his brother wasn’t consulting anymore) so he could balance all the things he needed to control, all the things that would go to hell without the strong hand of the great Don Eppes. Me, me, me. Everything is about me, and I know you’re not brave/competent/strong enough to do it without me. How fucking egotistical.
The problem with therapy, the problem with seeing Bradford every week, is that it ruins having character defects. Self-awareness of this shit - “codependent behavior” - sucks, and Don can’t shake the gross feeling he gets whenever he thinks and stop to consider what the hell is going on in his head.
At first, his leave of absence was a suggestion, a friendly offering to give him a break and time to heal. But after that phone call to David, the Director (and Bradford) said Don’s leave was mandatory. That sure sent his hyper-sensitivity into high gear. I’m the great Don Eppes; what could I have possibly done that you wouldn’t want me to come in and save the day?
So tonight, he doesn’t want to stop drinking. He lost his father, and maybe if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his work, he would have had more time with Alan, would have had the opportunity to make more - make better - memories. Maybe if Don hadn’t been so wrapped up in his work, Alan wouldn’t have died. Maybe if his father had felt Don was present and invested in their relationship, his heart wouldn’t have given up. Maybe his heart gave up because he couldn’t deal any longer with his fear for his son’s life. Maybe if Don hadn’t become a federal agent, his dad would still be alive. Because it’s all about me. Me, me, fucking me.
Tonight, he doesn’t want to stop drinking. His job was pushing him away, and maybe if he had tried harder, he wouldn’t be in this spot. Maybe if he hadn’t punched that agent, they wouldn’t think he was a live wire. Maybe if he had let Ian Edgerton take the shot at Crystal Hoyle (it was really Edgerton’s case, after all, and he was the sniping expert), they wouldn’t think he was so dangerous. Maybe if…. It’s hard for him to think of places where he’s failed - even slipped - because he’s so damn good. And maybe that’s it. Maybe if he wasn’t so good at his job, others wouldn’t feel intimidated, and they’d let him come back to work instead of forcing him on this stupid temporary leave.
He motions to the bartender for his thirteenth beer. Lucky thirteen. What a crock of shit. Leave it to a bunch of assholes to take something that’s supposed to be bad luck and try to put a spin on it, like, “Ooh, I’m such a badass. What’s unlucky for others is lucky for me. I laugh in the face of danger and convention. Such a badass - rules do not apply.” Fuck you.
But isn’t that what you’re doing?
Don sips his fresh beer as weak-kneed pseudo-logic kicks in again. Isn’t that what you’re doing? Taking situations and twisting them to keep yourself twisted? Refusing a life raft so you can drown? Staying stuck in your bitterness and arrogance and anger and control issues so you can feel justified in ordering each new beer? Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink. You fucking selfish brat.
Don looks over at Charlie. He doesn’t know what beer his brother is on. He didn’t care enough to pay attention. Yeah, he cared enough to get Charlie out of the garage and away from the chalkboards of… whatever… but what was that all about? Feeling obligated to take care of him? Needing to feel like he’s still got the control? Wanting to keep Charlie indebted to him? “Hey, bro, thanks for pulling me out of my insanity again. I owe ya. Next round’s on me.”
You have a ginormous ego.
Yeah, thanks for that, buddy.
Don looks over at Charlie, and he’s scribbling letters and numbers onto a napkin. There’s a growing pile to his left, his treasures. Don’s looking at Charlie, and those old feelings are rising up again, feelings he’s tried to bury for so long. Big fucking deal he’s not an alcoholic; between the arrogant control and the dangerous playground of his mind (Who will I kill next? Who will die the next time I’m not perfect? Will I fuck my brother?), he’s got some of the worst addicts beat. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
No, really - me.
He’s dealt so long with these feelings for Charlie. How more unfair can life be? Everyone eventually leaves him - Mom, girlfriends, partners, Dad. And if it isn’t complicated enough that he has this undeniable suspicion he’s gay (while working in a world where the men are men - emotionless men’s men with ten-inch cocks, bulging biceps, alcohol abuse, and the random women they fuck), the man he has to have feelings for is his brother. And even if that isn’t complicated - assuming they live in an alternate reality where incest is okay - Charlie’s a handful and a half. He’s an enigma, and for as much as he’s a stubborn man with arrogance comparable to Don’s, he’s also an insecure child - always seeking approval, always trying to make others understand, always hurt and upset when people don’t follow the script in his head. Charlie’s overly-ambitious and overly-excited and overly-sensitive. It’s like he requires constant care. Don’s care. It’s like he requires constant care despite being perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And maybe that’s what drives Don - knowing that Charlie can take care of himself but being so afraid that he’ll make the wrong decision, and Don refuses to allow that. There’s that control again. Charlie can’t be allowed to make his own mistakes, and Don has to protect him. That’s his responsibility, his job. It’s really about Don. Me, me, me.
No really - me.
Somewhere in the obsession of taking care of Charlie, feelings of affection developed, feelings beyond brotherly affection. Everyone eventually leaves him, but Charlie is still around. Charlie put up with Don’s worst character defects, tolerated - loved - him through his ugliest moments. Charlie is still there, sitting right next to him. Charlie’s there, and Don’s old enough to believe that nothing better is going to come along. And what could be better? Who could be better than Charlie?
He tells himself, thirteenth beer halfway gone, that he doesn’t deserve better. He’s done enough wrong that this is his punishment: being in love with his brother, wanting what he can never have. He doesn’t deserve better.
But there’s another sip, another moment for the alcohol to circulate and keep this fuckery going in circles, and he’s back to thinking that no one’s better, no one’s better than Charlie. Charlie is a prince, and only the holy get him. Amita’s perfect for him - all beautiful and intelligent and good and perfectly boring. She’s a genius and a golden doll and pure-hearted, and there isn’t anything wrong with her. She’s flawless. Depthless and flawless. Maybe that’s what perfection is - being robotic and dead inside and everything that everyone wants without being anything real.
Fuck you, you judgmental asshole. You’re just being jealous.
He is. Don is so fucking jealous of Amita - for getting Charlie, for being his fantasy, for not having to struggle. Her problems are superficial - how to advance in her career, how to impress the horn-rims and tweed suits with all their accolades, how to develop her relationship with Charlie. She doesn’t have to save lives. She doesn’t have to make the decision to pull the trigger on someone. Her life is blissfully simple compared to Don’s. Maybe that’s what Charlie likes, what Charlie wants. Maybe if they did live in an alternate reality where incest is okay - or an alternate reality where they aren’t brothers - Charlie still wouldn’t be with him because Don’s life is too messy, too ugly.
You can build an empire on what-ifs and fantasy, and it means shit in the real world. At the end of the day, he’s still an overburdened federal agent with a kill record, dead parents, and a brother he’s in love with. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Get out of your head.
“Whatcha workin’ on, buddy?”
Charlie looks up from his napkin scrawlings with glassy eyes and a dumb grin. “It’s an algorithm to revolutionize the way the NSA - “ He hiccups and laughs a little. “I think I’m wasted.”
He can’t deny the thrill he gets at seeing his brother like this - jellied vulnerability. And it’s not entirely for prurient reasons, some sick and twisted thought that this could be an opportunity to declare his feelings and mold malleable Charlie into someone receptive to this insane fantasy; it’s also because Charlie now needs Don more than before, needs him to be his watchdog and protector. Don Eppes to the rescue. How ridiculous the notion that one drunk person could protect another.
“Let’s get you home.”
Never mind that Don’s balance is more helter-skelter than Charlie’s - let’s get you home. Because Charlie requires constant care, Don’s care. Through the whole long cab ride to Charlie’s home, Don tells himself he’s doing the right thing. Through the whole long cab ride to Charlie’s home, Don tells himself - his cock hardening even as Charlie’s eyes roll back and head rolls against the backseat - he’s doing the right thing.
Walking to the front door, the alcohol in his system takes a deep breath and explodes, knocking the equilibrium and rational thought and sense of time and place, sense of reality, right out of him. All that shit lies in the bushes, in the grass that lines the walkways with little patches of dandelions and croppings of weeds. At the door, he’s swimming in a sea of euphoria, filled with nothing but lust and cocksureness. Inside the door, just inside the house, he is a Neanderthal, a prehistoric man barely evolved from primates and capable of comprehending only what he wants on the most basic level, the basest of desires.
“I want to fuck you.” Everything around him is dark and blurry.
“Dude, I’m not Liz.”
Snap back to reality.
BRAIN 1: What are you doing?
BRAIN 2: Just go with it.
The war of the minds, the left and the right, the right and the wrong, the wrong and the excusable.
You don’t know what it’s like.
Poor me, poor me, pour me -
No, really - me.
Me.
Get out of your head.
His tongue is in Charlie’s mouth, hand on the back of his neck. Stiffness softens, and Charlie becomes liquid - jellied vulnerability. When Don pulls back and opens his eyes (he didn’t know he closed them), Charlie is in focus. He’s a high-def fantasy bleeding out of the TV screen and crawling up from the carpeting, like that dead chick in The Ring.
“Holy shit.” It sounds less like exasperated ecstasy and more like shocked dismay.
BRAIN 1: What are you doing?
BRAIN 2: Dude.
“Don.” It’s not a question to see if he’s there under the alcoholic aura and insanity come out to play; it’s a statement, a reminder of who he is beneath the behavior: Charlie’s brother.
There isn’t disgust on Charlie’s face. He’s just looking at him, looking at Don. No joy, no sadness, no anger. Unreadable.
He can’t deny the disappointment that there’s nothing on Charlie’s face, nothing in his eyes. I’m the great Don Eppes, Personality Extraordinaire; what could possibly be wrong with you that you would feel nothing for me?
At thirteen beers drunk, he’s as sober as it gets.
“I should go.” His words nudge past the baseball in his throat.
“I will,” Charlie quickly protests, and Don can see his neck tightening as he speaks, Adam’s apple defined. “When I’m ready, I will.”
It’s in that moment that Don realizes Charlie’s not talking about leaving. There’s finally an expression on his face, and it’s lust and desperation and surrender.
Charlie wants him.
But what about Amita?
God, what about everything? How do they keep this a secret? How do they balance professional, personal, and private lives? What will Charlie tell Amita? What if they get caught? Their careers will be over, they’ll go to jail, they’ll be completely ostracized. How are they going to deal with this?
BRAIN 1: You don’t have to do this.
BRAIN 2: No one will find out.
BRAIN 1: You’re bound to make a mistake.
BRAIN 2: You never make mistakes.
BRAIN 1: You always make mistakes.
“Talk to me, Don.”
Get out of your head.
“Don, talk to me.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
They jump at the sound of the familiar female voice, and when their skin and skeletons are connected again, their minds feel crisp and clear.
Scared straight, in a manner of speaking.
Amita stands at the foot of the staircase, black hair a mess of waves and her sweatpants riding low on her hips, a hint of tummy. She’s so beautiful there with soft, sleepy eyes. Charlie deserves her, he thinks, and jealousy wells up again, this time for Charlie.
She’s so pretty and smart and successful, the kind of girl his dad would have wanted for Don, not that he hadn’t wanted the same for his other son. Amita’s so gorgeous standing there, and Don finds himself wanting her. Wanting them both.
Leave it to the King of Egos to demand more of the impossible just as soon as he’s gotten a little taste of it.
She asked a question.
Don fumbles with excuses in his head and falls back on the trusty, “Nothing. Just work stuff.” He puts the button on the scene with a smile.
“Oh, okay,” she answers, mollified, and turns her attention to Charlie. “Are you coming up soon?”
“Yeah, Charlie, I should be going home anyway. It’s late.”
Charlie’s still wearing eyes the size of planets. “We’ll talk later?” It’s a plea. For damn sure, it’s a plea.
“Yeah, buddy.”
Don’s out in the driveway before he even calls for the cab. On the ride to his apartment, the alcohol is still in his bloodstream, dancing waltzes with his nerves, but it’s dulled by the racing thoughts.
What if she said yes, too? What if they both said yes to the same thing at the same time? What if he got to have them together?
Yeah, right. That would never happen. Charlie would be too petrified to include her. She would be too disgusted to ever agree. She would probably report them, turn them in for being sexual deviants, dangers to the fragile sensibilities of society. She’s probably not even attracted to Don; after all, she’s got Charlie. She doesn’t want Don. And that makes his stomach twist. I’m the great Don Eppes, Lover Extraordinaire; what makes you so special that you wouldn’t want me to fuck you?
You can build an internment camp on what-ifs and assumptions, and it means shit in the real world because at the end of the day, he’s still too scared to even ask.
That little revelation doesn’t stop the full-throttle fantasy from knocking into him as soon as he closes his apartment door, knocking him down onto his bed, and he pushes his pants to his ankles, lets his knees spread, and takes his heavy cock into his hand.
Charlie’s kissing Amita, hands on her neck, on her jaw, holding her face up to him, her hands on his bare back. Her full breasts are pressed between their bodies, Charlie’s full cock - hard, high, and haughty - is pressed between their hips, stomachs. Between open lips, tongues touch. Knees press into the bedding - hills and valleys across the comforter.
She turns her head to look at Don, and Charlie’s mouth slides across hers to her cheek.
“Don,” she says, a statement of fact with a subliminal message - fuck me, fuck us.
Then he’s on the bed with them, Charlie’s mouth against his, Amita’s mouth moving down to his cock. He moans at the sensation of her tongue against him and tears himself from Charlie to look down and see her swallowing him. Her lips wrapping around his cock, his cock prodding the back of her throat - this is an act previously reserved for Charlie. And how would that have been? What was that like? Don pulls Charlie close to him, bodies flush, and directs Charlie’s cock to her mouth. Without hesitation, she switches to Charlie, coaxing out heavy sighs, and then she’s back to Don. Back and forth, lover to lover, it’s pure passion that guides her in lieu of prior experience, and she instinctively knows how much time to spend on each one, toying with their pleasure receptors to keep them both on the brink of ecstasy.
Flash forward.
Charlie’s on his back, Amita on top and facing Don near the foot of the bed. Reverse cowgirl, the sexperts call it, except Charlie’s fucking her perfect ass and leaving her pussy for Don. Her face is tight with the complex tension of pleasure and pain, and Charlie’s face doesn’t look much different. Two faces in blissful agony and framed by black rings of hair. They’re Don’s for the asking, the taking. His lovers. His.
Don moves forward and enters Amita. Her moan is high and drawn out - crescendos and decrescendos with each advance and retreat. She wraps her arms around him, and Charlie’s hands move from her hips to Don’s. She’s hot and tight and already fluttering with anticipation of the big release. Charlie’s territory becomes Don’s.
Flash forward.
Amita’s on her back, Charlie on top and looking down at her. Missionary, the sexperts call it, except Don’s fucking Charlie’s perfect ass. For so long, he’s wanted this - to be inside Charlie, to show him the physical expression of his love. Their moans are primitive operas - harmonies discordant and notes following the percussive line of their thrusts. Charlie’s hot and tight and everything that Don dreamed he would be, a high-def fantasy bleeding out of the TV screen. Fuck me, fuck us. Forbidden territory becomes Don’s.
Release.
$$$
When he wakes up at noon, he’s still laying on top of the comforter with his pants at his ankles, cock laying limply against his thigh, and dried come on his stomach.
Fuzzy pieces of last night burst forward. He kissed Charlie.
He kissed his brother.
BRAIN 1: Holy shit.
BRAIN 2: …
He’s had the fantasy for years, but to act on it? That’s suicide. Isn’t it? “If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do differently?” Bradford asked him that. If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do?
No. Just no.
And Charlie agreed to it. Don actually asked, and Charlie actually agreed. “When I’m ready, I will.” There’s a way to destroy what’s left of your family. If it isn’t bad enough that he wasn’t strong enough to keep his mom alive and wasn’t good enough to keep his dad from dying, he’s going to ruin the last part of his family by pulling Charlie into his insanity. Yeah, let’s do that; let’s be not pure enough to keep your brother safe. Why don’t you just pull the trigger?
Stop being so damn hard on yourself.
He’s pouring coffee, the dullest of hangovers looming in the distance, and it comes to him. Head and heart become congruent. His mother died of cancer, and his father died of heart failure. There’s nothing he could have done to make it better or worse. It isn’t about him as a son. His superiors gave him time off from work as a necessary courtesy. It has nothing to do with his performance. It isn’t about him as an agent. Charlie made his mistakes and bad decisions (and will continue to) because he’s human and has to learn. There’s nothing Don can do to change that. It isn’t about him as a brother.
Things were going to happen. Guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder. Things are going to continue to happen, and it’s not all personal to the great Don Eppes. I’m just Don Eppes, Human; it’s not all about me.
Give yourself permission to make mistakes.
He’s riding a high with the weight off his back, lighter than ever. The world won’t come crumbling down if he doesn’t control everything, if he isn’t perfect. He’s got the right to make mistakes. He’s got the right to be human.
Because you don’t know. Because you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know this life with its demands and sacrifices. You don’t know, so you have no right to expect him to not make mistakes, even the big mistakes.
He’s riding a high, and he decides he’ll go to see Charlie. They’ll have this conversation, this necessary talk, maybe come up with a plan. Maybe he’ll talk to Amita. This is what he wants, and for as much as it’s a mistake, it’s also his reward. It’s what he deserves.
He gets to his car where it was left at the bar, and through the whole long ride to Charlie’s home, he tells himself he’s doing the right thing. He’s thinking of the things he’ll say. He’s imagining the responses.
When he gets to Charlie’s, the sound of laughter comes from the backyard. He walks around the house, and there’s Charlie and Amita sitting on the patio furniture with glasses of red wine. Remnants of food - steak and vegetables - stick to plates on top of the table. They look so happy. It’s just the two of them, and they’re perfectly complete, two faces in blissful peace and framed by black rings of hair. They have their sanity. And to think that Don came here to screw it up.
Don came here to screw that up.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
“Hey, Don. What’s up?” Charlie greets when he notices Don standing there silent. The boy - scratch that - man genius looks tense and anxious now. Can you imagine this being the way it is always? That’s what you’ll get if you proceed.
How can he do this to them? Up until now, the bad stuff that’s happened in his life hasn’t been his fault. It wasn’t about him. But this? If he does this, the inevitable fallout will be his doing, his mistake he knew he was making.
The problem with therapy, the problem with seeing Bradford every week, is that it ruins having character defects. Self-awareness of this shit sucks.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
Don smiles and shakes his head. “Nothing, Charlie. Nothing’s up.” He slowly nods his head. “You two have a great day.”
When he’s back to his car, he hits the speed-dial. The other end picks up.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Agent Eppes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m ready to come back to work.”
“Because?”
“Well, you know, the grieving process. It’s done its thing.”
“And?”
He puts the key in the ignition. “And the teacher appeared.”
“Mmhmm…” He can picture Bradford nodding his head with his molasses smile. “Should I keep you on the books for next week?”
There’s a moment’s contemplation, a brief period for the arrogance to rise up and tell him he doesn’t need therapy anymore. “I still need the lesson plan.”
Bradford laughs. “Faith without works is dead. We acknowledge, accept, and put into action.”
Charlie’s house gets smaller in the rearview mirror. “Yeah.” He’s seen his insanity, and now it’s time to change. It feels like an impossible feat, though - that there’s so much to address, so many thoughts and attitudes and behaviors to correct and the threat of more laying in wait beneath the surface. He’s hanging in the interim, in the waiting period between recognizing his character defects and receiving the gift of change. The people in AA call it The Promises - that freedom from self-doubt and self-interest.
Are these extravagant promises?
We think not!
“You know, Don, God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you hearing me, or have you left the conversation?”
He takes a deep breath and pulls off to the side of the road. Another deep breath, “I’m here.”
“Patience is the greatest gift you can give yourself right now.”
“Does that mean I can’t come back in to work?”
A moment of silence and then, “I’ll put in a call to the Director. But don’t have any expectations.”
Expectations are pre-paid resentments.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Don?”
“Yeah?”
“We get what we need.”
What we want and what we get, what we want and what we need, are oftentimes very different things.
“Yeah. See ya later, Bradford.”
“Good day, Agent Eppes.”
He’s driving away again, and on the journey back home, Mick Jagger is singing in his head. It’s true; he didn’t get what he wanted - Charlie, Charlie and Amita, his impossible fantasy. But that’s what fantasies are - impossible. As long as Charlie gets what he wants, Don gets what he needs. Call it codependency, but in this case, the outcome is what’s for the best. He can keep his fantasy (though how does it benefit him?) as long as it doesn’t affect his reality. Charlie and Amita together, alone, just the two of them - that’s how it should be.
Just do the next right thing.
He could keep the fantasy, but he knows it’s only there to fill something, to satisfy him in a way reality cannot. Inside his apartment again, he sits down at his laptop and begins typing. He knows that if Bradford knew about this - Charlie, Charlie and Amita, the fantasy - he’d ask Don one question.
And he types, “Why am I unsatisfied?”
You think you know. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like. Sixteen-hour days, constantly on-call, guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder, getting so deep into a criminal’s mind, the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done, perpetually in fear of what you’ll do next. You don’t know what it’s like. Dead parents, saving and taking lives, wanting to fuck your brother because he’s the only one you can depend on to see you at your worst, to understand you, to not leave you. You don’t know what it’s like. And no one ever really asks you what you need. The arms that stretch out only reach so far.
You can build an empire on what-ifs and fantasy, an internment camp on what-ifs and assumptions, and it means shit in the real world because everything is about action.
And you can keep on waiting for the world to change, but you’ve got to be the one to take the first step. Change isn’t about money and politics and status; it’s about self-awareness of this shit, of character defects, of personal insanity and the hell you’re living in, the hell you’ve created, and having the courage to look honestly, be honest, and say, “No more. This is what I’ll do differently today.”
If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do differently?
end.
like it? watch whereismytalent.
author. nv
fandom. numb3rs
characters. don eppes(/charlie eppes/amita ramanujan)
rating. nc-17
genre. angst
warnings. slash, incest, threesome, pathologizing
word count. 5117
summary. therapy begins to work its magic on don.
feedback. is the reason i do this.
challenge. "waiting" for team angst (numb3rswriteoff)
beta. sororcula :D
disclaimer. the characters and canon contained herein are the property of cheryl heuton and nicolas falacci, as well as any associated writers, producers, networks, and parent companies. the following was written by neur0 vanity. no copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at numb3rswriteoff. After you’ve read the fic, please rate it by voting here. (Your comment will be screened.) Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt (waiting), how angsty the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you’re done, please check out the other challenge fic at numb3rswriteoff. Thank you!
Any minute now, my ship is coming in.
I'll keep checking the horizon.
I'll stand on the bow...
I'm waiting for my real life to begin.
- Colin Hay
You think you know. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like. Sixteen-hour days, constantly on-call, your eyes blurring and crossing from reading the same document, the same screen, over and over again in the hopes of finding the tiniest detail that would blow the case open, and all those details become rote memory, every crime in all its insidiousness coming to life in Technicolor and surround sound in your nightmares. You don’t know what it’s like. Guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder. Getting so deep into the mind of a criminal that you understand his motives, and sometimes, you begin to empathize, and sometimes, you start to wonder if it could be you. You start to wonder if it could be you because with all the pressure and control compiling with all the chaos and the things you’ve seen (mutilated bodies, raped children), the things you’ve done (killing a man, killing a woman, would you kill a child if it came down to it?)…. When Bradford says you’re in a high-risk situation, he’s not referring to your job; he’s talking about your mind, and he’s gently warning you to stay out of your head. He doesn’t say what the consequences might be; he doesn’t have to because you already know. But you - civilians - don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like. So when you’re at a bar and see him - Don Eppes - throwing back the drinks, you don’t get to say “slow down.” You don’t have the right. Because you don’t know.
He’s not an alcoholic. He can stop when he wants to. He can have just one or two. He’s done it countless times before. He can stop when he wants to, and he usually stops early because he knows that the call could come in at any minute, and while he can do his job with one beer in his bloodstream, the ghost of a buzz tickling his nerves, he can’t do it with six or eight or twelve. He can stop when he wants to, and it’s not about having willpower (he’s run into enough addicts to know that it’s not because they don’t have willpower; they’ve got enough willpower to turn over trucks for their drug of choice); it’s because he doesn’t have the disease - his brain’s not fucked like that. He can stop when he wants to, but tonight, he doesn’t want to. Tonight, he’s having that allergic reaction, and one just isn’t enough. Or six. Or eight. Or twelve.
They buried his father on Wednesday, and he was put on leave. It was temporary leave - “take however long you need” - but that first day drove him so stir-crazy that he was calling David to find out what they were doing and saying he was going to come in. Beneath the initial gut reaction to just respond, act on autopilot and jump into action, there was an arrogant belief and fear that everything would fall apart without him, like criminals would be worse knowing that he wasn’t on the job, like every heinous act an individual committed would be personal to the great Don Eppes. Things would fall apart at work without him, and Charlie would fall apart at home without him (because everything is about Don. Don, Don, Don. Me, me, me. No, really - it’s all about me), and in the brief time it took to tell David he was going to come into the field office, he was already formulating a plot to bring Charlie into the mix (even though his brother wasn’t consulting anymore) so he could balance all the things he needed to control, all the things that would go to hell without the strong hand of the great Don Eppes. Me, me, me. Everything is about me, and I know you’re not brave/competent/strong enough to do it without me. How fucking egotistical.
The problem with therapy, the problem with seeing Bradford every week, is that it ruins having character defects. Self-awareness of this shit - “codependent behavior” - sucks, and Don can’t shake the gross feeling he gets whenever he thinks and stop to consider what the hell is going on in his head.
At first, his leave of absence was a suggestion, a friendly offering to give him a break and time to heal. But after that phone call to David, the Director (and Bradford) said Don’s leave was mandatory. That sure sent his hyper-sensitivity into high gear. I’m the great Don Eppes; what could I have possibly done that you wouldn’t want me to come in and save the day?
So tonight, he doesn’t want to stop drinking. He lost his father, and maybe if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his work, he would have had more time with Alan, would have had the opportunity to make more - make better - memories. Maybe if Don hadn’t been so wrapped up in his work, Alan wouldn’t have died. Maybe if his father had felt Don was present and invested in their relationship, his heart wouldn’t have given up. Maybe his heart gave up because he couldn’t deal any longer with his fear for his son’s life. Maybe if Don hadn’t become a federal agent, his dad would still be alive. Because it’s all about me. Me, me, fucking me.
Tonight, he doesn’t want to stop drinking. His job was pushing him away, and maybe if he had tried harder, he wouldn’t be in this spot. Maybe if he hadn’t punched that agent, they wouldn’t think he was a live wire. Maybe if he had let Ian Edgerton take the shot at Crystal Hoyle (it was really Edgerton’s case, after all, and he was the sniping expert), they wouldn’t think he was so dangerous. Maybe if…. It’s hard for him to think of places where he’s failed - even slipped - because he’s so damn good. And maybe that’s it. Maybe if he wasn’t so good at his job, others wouldn’t feel intimidated, and they’d let him come back to work instead of forcing him on this stupid temporary leave.
He motions to the bartender for his thirteenth beer. Lucky thirteen. What a crock of shit. Leave it to a bunch of assholes to take something that’s supposed to be bad luck and try to put a spin on it, like, “Ooh, I’m such a badass. What’s unlucky for others is lucky for me. I laugh in the face of danger and convention. Such a badass - rules do not apply.” Fuck you.
But isn’t that what you’re doing?
Don sips his fresh beer as weak-kneed pseudo-logic kicks in again. Isn’t that what you’re doing? Taking situations and twisting them to keep yourself twisted? Refusing a life raft so you can drown? Staying stuck in your bitterness and arrogance and anger and control issues so you can feel justified in ordering each new beer? Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink. You fucking selfish brat.
Don looks over at Charlie. He doesn’t know what beer his brother is on. He didn’t care enough to pay attention. Yeah, he cared enough to get Charlie out of the garage and away from the chalkboards of… whatever… but what was that all about? Feeling obligated to take care of him? Needing to feel like he’s still got the control? Wanting to keep Charlie indebted to him? “Hey, bro, thanks for pulling me out of my insanity again. I owe ya. Next round’s on me.”
You have a ginormous ego.
Yeah, thanks for that, buddy.
Don looks over at Charlie, and he’s scribbling letters and numbers onto a napkin. There’s a growing pile to his left, his treasures. Don’s looking at Charlie, and those old feelings are rising up again, feelings he’s tried to bury for so long. Big fucking deal he’s not an alcoholic; between the arrogant control and the dangerous playground of his mind (Who will I kill next? Who will die the next time I’m not perfect? Will I fuck my brother?), he’s got some of the worst addicts beat. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
No, really - me.
He’s dealt so long with these feelings for Charlie. How more unfair can life be? Everyone eventually leaves him - Mom, girlfriends, partners, Dad. And if it isn’t complicated enough that he has this undeniable suspicion he’s gay (while working in a world where the men are men - emotionless men’s men with ten-inch cocks, bulging biceps, alcohol abuse, and the random women they fuck), the man he has to have feelings for is his brother. And even if that isn’t complicated - assuming they live in an alternate reality where incest is okay - Charlie’s a handful and a half. He’s an enigma, and for as much as he’s a stubborn man with arrogance comparable to Don’s, he’s also an insecure child - always seeking approval, always trying to make others understand, always hurt and upset when people don’t follow the script in his head. Charlie’s overly-ambitious and overly-excited and overly-sensitive. It’s like he requires constant care. Don’s care. It’s like he requires constant care despite being perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And maybe that’s what drives Don - knowing that Charlie can take care of himself but being so afraid that he’ll make the wrong decision, and Don refuses to allow that. There’s that control again. Charlie can’t be allowed to make his own mistakes, and Don has to protect him. That’s his responsibility, his job. It’s really about Don. Me, me, me.
No really - me.
Somewhere in the obsession of taking care of Charlie, feelings of affection developed, feelings beyond brotherly affection. Everyone eventually leaves him, but Charlie is still around. Charlie put up with Don’s worst character defects, tolerated - loved - him through his ugliest moments. Charlie is still there, sitting right next to him. Charlie’s there, and Don’s old enough to believe that nothing better is going to come along. And what could be better? Who could be better than Charlie?
He tells himself, thirteenth beer halfway gone, that he doesn’t deserve better. He’s done enough wrong that this is his punishment: being in love with his brother, wanting what he can never have. He doesn’t deserve better.
But there’s another sip, another moment for the alcohol to circulate and keep this fuckery going in circles, and he’s back to thinking that no one’s better, no one’s better than Charlie. Charlie is a prince, and only the holy get him. Amita’s perfect for him - all beautiful and intelligent and good and perfectly boring. She’s a genius and a golden doll and pure-hearted, and there isn’t anything wrong with her. She’s flawless. Depthless and flawless. Maybe that’s what perfection is - being robotic and dead inside and everything that everyone wants without being anything real.
Fuck you, you judgmental asshole. You’re just being jealous.
He is. Don is so fucking jealous of Amita - for getting Charlie, for being his fantasy, for not having to struggle. Her problems are superficial - how to advance in her career, how to impress the horn-rims and tweed suits with all their accolades, how to develop her relationship with Charlie. She doesn’t have to save lives. She doesn’t have to make the decision to pull the trigger on someone. Her life is blissfully simple compared to Don’s. Maybe that’s what Charlie likes, what Charlie wants. Maybe if they did live in an alternate reality where incest is okay - or an alternate reality where they aren’t brothers - Charlie still wouldn’t be with him because Don’s life is too messy, too ugly.
You can build an empire on what-ifs and fantasy, and it means shit in the real world. At the end of the day, he’s still an overburdened federal agent with a kill record, dead parents, and a brother he’s in love with. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Get out of your head.
“Whatcha workin’ on, buddy?”
Charlie looks up from his napkin scrawlings with glassy eyes and a dumb grin. “It’s an algorithm to revolutionize the way the NSA - “ He hiccups and laughs a little. “I think I’m wasted.”
He can’t deny the thrill he gets at seeing his brother like this - jellied vulnerability. And it’s not entirely for prurient reasons, some sick and twisted thought that this could be an opportunity to declare his feelings and mold malleable Charlie into someone receptive to this insane fantasy; it’s also because Charlie now needs Don more than before, needs him to be his watchdog and protector. Don Eppes to the rescue. How ridiculous the notion that one drunk person could protect another.
“Let’s get you home.”
Never mind that Don’s balance is more helter-skelter than Charlie’s - let’s get you home. Because Charlie requires constant care, Don’s care. Through the whole long cab ride to Charlie’s home, Don tells himself he’s doing the right thing. Through the whole long cab ride to Charlie’s home, Don tells himself - his cock hardening even as Charlie’s eyes roll back and head rolls against the backseat - he’s doing the right thing.
Walking to the front door, the alcohol in his system takes a deep breath and explodes, knocking the equilibrium and rational thought and sense of time and place, sense of reality, right out of him. All that shit lies in the bushes, in the grass that lines the walkways with little patches of dandelions and croppings of weeds. At the door, he’s swimming in a sea of euphoria, filled with nothing but lust and cocksureness. Inside the door, just inside the house, he is a Neanderthal, a prehistoric man barely evolved from primates and capable of comprehending only what he wants on the most basic level, the basest of desires.
“I want to fuck you.” Everything around him is dark and blurry.
“Dude, I’m not Liz.”
Snap back to reality.
BRAIN 1: What are you doing?
BRAIN 2: Just go with it.
The war of the minds, the left and the right, the right and the wrong, the wrong and the excusable.
You don’t know what it’s like.
Poor me, poor me, pour me -
No, really - me.
Me.
Get out of your head.
His tongue is in Charlie’s mouth, hand on the back of his neck. Stiffness softens, and Charlie becomes liquid - jellied vulnerability. When Don pulls back and opens his eyes (he didn’t know he closed them), Charlie is in focus. He’s a high-def fantasy bleeding out of the TV screen and crawling up from the carpeting, like that dead chick in The Ring.
“Holy shit.” It sounds less like exasperated ecstasy and more like shocked dismay.
BRAIN 1: What are you doing?
BRAIN 2: Dude.
“Don.” It’s not a question to see if he’s there under the alcoholic aura and insanity come out to play; it’s a statement, a reminder of who he is beneath the behavior: Charlie’s brother.
There isn’t disgust on Charlie’s face. He’s just looking at him, looking at Don. No joy, no sadness, no anger. Unreadable.
He can’t deny the disappointment that there’s nothing on Charlie’s face, nothing in his eyes. I’m the great Don Eppes, Personality Extraordinaire; what could possibly be wrong with you that you would feel nothing for me?
At thirteen beers drunk, he’s as sober as it gets.
“I should go.” His words nudge past the baseball in his throat.
“I will,” Charlie quickly protests, and Don can see his neck tightening as he speaks, Adam’s apple defined. “When I’m ready, I will.”
It’s in that moment that Don realizes Charlie’s not talking about leaving. There’s finally an expression on his face, and it’s lust and desperation and surrender.
Charlie wants him.
But what about Amita?
God, what about everything? How do they keep this a secret? How do they balance professional, personal, and private lives? What will Charlie tell Amita? What if they get caught? Their careers will be over, they’ll go to jail, they’ll be completely ostracized. How are they going to deal with this?
BRAIN 1: You don’t have to do this.
BRAIN 2: No one will find out.
BRAIN 1: You’re bound to make a mistake.
BRAIN 2: You never make mistakes.
BRAIN 1: You always make mistakes.
“Talk to me, Don.”
Get out of your head.
“Don, talk to me.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
They jump at the sound of the familiar female voice, and when their skin and skeletons are connected again, their minds feel crisp and clear.
Scared straight, in a manner of speaking.
Amita stands at the foot of the staircase, black hair a mess of waves and her sweatpants riding low on her hips, a hint of tummy. She’s so beautiful there with soft, sleepy eyes. Charlie deserves her, he thinks, and jealousy wells up again, this time for Charlie.
She’s so pretty and smart and successful, the kind of girl his dad would have wanted for Don, not that he hadn’t wanted the same for his other son. Amita’s so gorgeous standing there, and Don finds himself wanting her. Wanting them both.
Leave it to the King of Egos to demand more of the impossible just as soon as he’s gotten a little taste of it.
She asked a question.
Don fumbles with excuses in his head and falls back on the trusty, “Nothing. Just work stuff.” He puts the button on the scene with a smile.
“Oh, okay,” she answers, mollified, and turns her attention to Charlie. “Are you coming up soon?”
“Yeah, Charlie, I should be going home anyway. It’s late.”
Charlie’s still wearing eyes the size of planets. “We’ll talk later?” It’s a plea. For damn sure, it’s a plea.
“Yeah, buddy.”
Don’s out in the driveway before he even calls for the cab. On the ride to his apartment, the alcohol is still in his bloodstream, dancing waltzes with his nerves, but it’s dulled by the racing thoughts.
What if she said yes, too? What if they both said yes to the same thing at the same time? What if he got to have them together?
Yeah, right. That would never happen. Charlie would be too petrified to include her. She would be too disgusted to ever agree. She would probably report them, turn them in for being sexual deviants, dangers to the fragile sensibilities of society. She’s probably not even attracted to Don; after all, she’s got Charlie. She doesn’t want Don. And that makes his stomach twist. I’m the great Don Eppes, Lover Extraordinaire; what makes you so special that you wouldn’t want me to fuck you?
You can build an internment camp on what-ifs and assumptions, and it means shit in the real world because at the end of the day, he’s still too scared to even ask.
That little revelation doesn’t stop the full-throttle fantasy from knocking into him as soon as he closes his apartment door, knocking him down onto his bed, and he pushes his pants to his ankles, lets his knees spread, and takes his heavy cock into his hand.
Charlie’s kissing Amita, hands on her neck, on her jaw, holding her face up to him, her hands on his bare back. Her full breasts are pressed between their bodies, Charlie’s full cock - hard, high, and haughty - is pressed between their hips, stomachs. Between open lips, tongues touch. Knees press into the bedding - hills and valleys across the comforter.
She turns her head to look at Don, and Charlie’s mouth slides across hers to her cheek.
“Don,” she says, a statement of fact with a subliminal message - fuck me, fuck us.
Then he’s on the bed with them, Charlie’s mouth against his, Amita’s mouth moving down to his cock. He moans at the sensation of her tongue against him and tears himself from Charlie to look down and see her swallowing him. Her lips wrapping around his cock, his cock prodding the back of her throat - this is an act previously reserved for Charlie. And how would that have been? What was that like? Don pulls Charlie close to him, bodies flush, and directs Charlie’s cock to her mouth. Without hesitation, she switches to Charlie, coaxing out heavy sighs, and then she’s back to Don. Back and forth, lover to lover, it’s pure passion that guides her in lieu of prior experience, and she instinctively knows how much time to spend on each one, toying with their pleasure receptors to keep them both on the brink of ecstasy.
Flash forward.
Charlie’s on his back, Amita on top and facing Don near the foot of the bed. Reverse cowgirl, the sexperts call it, except Charlie’s fucking her perfect ass and leaving her pussy for Don. Her face is tight with the complex tension of pleasure and pain, and Charlie’s face doesn’t look much different. Two faces in blissful agony and framed by black rings of hair. They’re Don’s for the asking, the taking. His lovers. His.
Don moves forward and enters Amita. Her moan is high and drawn out - crescendos and decrescendos with each advance and retreat. She wraps her arms around him, and Charlie’s hands move from her hips to Don’s. She’s hot and tight and already fluttering with anticipation of the big release. Charlie’s territory becomes Don’s.
Flash forward.
Amita’s on her back, Charlie on top and looking down at her. Missionary, the sexperts call it, except Don’s fucking Charlie’s perfect ass. For so long, he’s wanted this - to be inside Charlie, to show him the physical expression of his love. Their moans are primitive operas - harmonies discordant and notes following the percussive line of their thrusts. Charlie’s hot and tight and everything that Don dreamed he would be, a high-def fantasy bleeding out of the TV screen. Fuck me, fuck us. Forbidden territory becomes Don’s.
Release.
$$$
When he wakes up at noon, he’s still laying on top of the comforter with his pants at his ankles, cock laying limply against his thigh, and dried come on his stomach.
Fuzzy pieces of last night burst forward. He kissed Charlie.
He kissed his brother.
BRAIN 1: Holy shit.
BRAIN 2: …
He’s had the fantasy for years, but to act on it? That’s suicide. Isn’t it? “If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do differently?” Bradford asked him that. If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do?
No. Just no.
And Charlie agreed to it. Don actually asked, and Charlie actually agreed. “When I’m ready, I will.” There’s a way to destroy what’s left of your family. If it isn’t bad enough that he wasn’t strong enough to keep his mom alive and wasn’t good enough to keep his dad from dying, he’s going to ruin the last part of his family by pulling Charlie into his insanity. Yeah, let’s do that; let’s be not pure enough to keep your brother safe. Why don’t you just pull the trigger?
Stop being so damn hard on yourself.
He’s pouring coffee, the dullest of hangovers looming in the distance, and it comes to him. Head and heart become congruent. His mother died of cancer, and his father died of heart failure. There’s nothing he could have done to make it better or worse. It isn’t about him as a son. His superiors gave him time off from work as a necessary courtesy. It has nothing to do with his performance. It isn’t about him as an agent. Charlie made his mistakes and bad decisions (and will continue to) because he’s human and has to learn. There’s nothing Don can do to change that. It isn’t about him as a brother.
Things were going to happen. Guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder. Things are going to continue to happen, and it’s not all personal to the great Don Eppes. I’m just Don Eppes, Human; it’s not all about me.
Give yourself permission to make mistakes.
He’s riding a high with the weight off his back, lighter than ever. The world won’t come crumbling down if he doesn’t control everything, if he isn’t perfect. He’s got the right to make mistakes. He’s got the right to be human.
Because you don’t know. Because you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know this life with its demands and sacrifices. You don’t know, so you have no right to expect him to not make mistakes, even the big mistakes.
He’s riding a high, and he decides he’ll go to see Charlie. They’ll have this conversation, this necessary talk, maybe come up with a plan. Maybe he’ll talk to Amita. This is what he wants, and for as much as it’s a mistake, it’s also his reward. It’s what he deserves.
He gets to his car where it was left at the bar, and through the whole long ride to Charlie’s home, he tells himself he’s doing the right thing. He’s thinking of the things he’ll say. He’s imagining the responses.
When he gets to Charlie’s, the sound of laughter comes from the backyard. He walks around the house, and there’s Charlie and Amita sitting on the patio furniture with glasses of red wine. Remnants of food - steak and vegetables - stick to plates on top of the table. They look so happy. It’s just the two of them, and they’re perfectly complete, two faces in blissful peace and framed by black rings of hair. They have their sanity. And to think that Don came here to screw it up.
Don came here to screw that up.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
“Hey, Don. What’s up?” Charlie greets when he notices Don standing there silent. The boy - scratch that - man genius looks tense and anxious now. Can you imagine this being the way it is always? That’s what you’ll get if you proceed.
How can he do this to them? Up until now, the bad stuff that’s happened in his life hasn’t been his fault. It wasn’t about him. But this? If he does this, the inevitable fallout will be his doing, his mistake he knew he was making.
The problem with therapy, the problem with seeing Bradford every week, is that it ruins having character defects. Self-awareness of this shit sucks.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
Don smiles and shakes his head. “Nothing, Charlie. Nothing’s up.” He slowly nods his head. “You two have a great day.”
When he’s back to his car, he hits the speed-dial. The other end picks up.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Agent Eppes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m ready to come back to work.”
“Because?”
“Well, you know, the grieving process. It’s done its thing.”
“And?”
He puts the key in the ignition. “And the teacher appeared.”
“Mmhmm…” He can picture Bradford nodding his head with his molasses smile. “Should I keep you on the books for next week?”
There’s a moment’s contemplation, a brief period for the arrogance to rise up and tell him he doesn’t need therapy anymore. “I still need the lesson plan.”
Bradford laughs. “Faith without works is dead. We acknowledge, accept, and put into action.”
Charlie’s house gets smaller in the rearview mirror. “Yeah.” He’s seen his insanity, and now it’s time to change. It feels like an impossible feat, though - that there’s so much to address, so many thoughts and attitudes and behaviors to correct and the threat of more laying in wait beneath the surface. He’s hanging in the interim, in the waiting period between recognizing his character defects and receiving the gift of change. The people in AA call it The Promises - that freedom from self-doubt and self-interest.
Are these extravagant promises?
We think not!
“You know, Don, God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you hearing me, or have you left the conversation?”
He takes a deep breath and pulls off to the side of the road. Another deep breath, “I’m here.”
“Patience is the greatest gift you can give yourself right now.”
“Does that mean I can’t come back in to work?”
A moment of silence and then, “I’ll put in a call to the Director. But don’t have any expectations.”
Expectations are pre-paid resentments.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Don?”
“Yeah?”
“We get what we need.”
What we want and what we get, what we want and what we need, are oftentimes very different things.
“Yeah. See ya later, Bradford.”
“Good day, Agent Eppes.”
He’s driving away again, and on the journey back home, Mick Jagger is singing in his head. It’s true; he didn’t get what he wanted - Charlie, Charlie and Amita, his impossible fantasy. But that’s what fantasies are - impossible. As long as Charlie gets what he wants, Don gets what he needs. Call it codependency, but in this case, the outcome is what’s for the best. He can keep his fantasy (though how does it benefit him?) as long as it doesn’t affect his reality. Charlie and Amita together, alone, just the two of them - that’s how it should be.
Just do the next right thing.
He could keep the fantasy, but he knows it’s only there to fill something, to satisfy him in a way reality cannot. Inside his apartment again, he sits down at his laptop and begins typing. He knows that if Bradford knew about this - Charlie, Charlie and Amita, the fantasy - he’d ask Don one question.
And he types, “Why am I unsatisfied?”
You think you know. You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like. Sixteen-hour days, constantly on-call, guns and drugs and violence and rape and murder, getting so deep into a criminal’s mind, the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done, perpetually in fear of what you’ll do next. You don’t know what it’s like. Dead parents, saving and taking lives, wanting to fuck your brother because he’s the only one you can depend on to see you at your worst, to understand you, to not leave you. You don’t know what it’s like. And no one ever really asks you what you need. The arms that stretch out only reach so far.
You can build an empire on what-ifs and fantasy, an internment camp on what-ifs and assumptions, and it means shit in the real world because everything is about action.
And you can keep on waiting for the world to change, but you’ve got to be the one to take the first step. Change isn’t about money and politics and status; it’s about self-awareness of this shit, of character defects, of personal insanity and the hell you’re living in, the hell you’ve created, and having the courage to look honestly, be honest, and say, “No more. This is what I’ll do differently today.”
If you knew you couldn’t fail, what would you do differently?
end.
like it? watch whereismytalent.