Obsessed
Title: Obsessed
Collection: The Long and Short of It
Rating: e
Characters/Pairings: Charlie, Don, OFCs
Warnings: excessively hot men being hot, PWP without the pr0n (Plot What Plot?)
Genres: Humor, Family, Fluff, Gen, Pr0nless PWP (Plot? What Plot?)
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 1324
Disclaimer: See Master Post.
Notes: See Master Post.
Summary: Interviews make Charlie nervous. But he's about to discover a whole new reason to be afraid.
"We're here today with Dr. Charles Eppes, a professor in Applied Mathematics at the California Institute of Science," Brenda said to the camera, then turned and favored him with a blinding smile.
Charlie returned it, though he had a feeling his expression looked more like a cornered animal in the blinding glare of headlights. Why had he let Millie talk him into this again?
Oh right. Fundraising for the department. Dammit.
Maybe they didn't really need that new server. They could get by with the ones they had for another year or-
"Doctor Eppes?"
He blinked and swallowed and focused on Brenda's face.
"Hi, yes, sorry. What was the question?"
She smiled at him, less blinding and more reassuring. "Take a breath, Charlie. Remember to breathe. This isn't live. It's just us here in the studio."
He smiled back weakly and took her advice.
She let him do that a few times, then said, "Better?"
He nodded. "Yes. Sorry."
"It's fine. Okay, let's try that again shall we?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry."
"No worries. Okay." She paused a beat, composed her face, then said, "You've been helping your brother, Special Agent Don Eppes, solve crimes with the FBI for three years now, right?"
"Yes, uh," he sat up straighter in his chair and tried not to think about the camera moving as it focused on him. "Three-" He paused and thought about that.
Really?
Well, it was back when-
Wow. Huh.
"Charlie?" she prompted in a whisper.
He jumped. "Right! Um, I mean, that's right. Three years."
"Now you're not an actual FBI agent, right?"
"No. No, I'm just a consultant." He laughed again. "I don't, uh, carry a gun or a badge or anything like that."
"So what do you do, as a consultant?"
"Ah, well, I do the math." He grinned and she returned it. "Um, no, really, I just, well . . ." He leaned forward. "Okay, say there was a fugitive and the FBI was trying to figure out where to look for them. They know the person is hiding somewhere in Los Angeles."
He smiled. "Now, obviously LA isn't an area they can really search effectively building by building. The fugitive has a very good chance of evading capture indefinitely, or even escaping. I might use pursuit curves to help them narrow down the probable paths the fugitive would take so they are more likely to find them."
She smiled, but seemed duly impressed. "Wow! I guess my Algebra teacher wasn't lying when she said we'd use this again someday!"
He chuckled. "That's . . . not Algebra."
She waved it off. "Well, I failed Algebra anyway."
He nodded. Yeah, somehow that didn't surprise him.
"So you help them catch fugitives. What about bank robberies or anything like that? Math has to be good for financial crimes, right?"
"Oh, yeah. The applications for white collar crime are limitless."
This wasn't so hard, actually, once they were talking about the math and he could forget about the cameras.
For twenty minutes they discussed-in general terms, of course-the cases he'd helped Don and his team with.
Then the questions took a . . . slightly more alarming turn.
"So, when we announced a few weeks ago that we were going to do an interview with you, we asked our viewers for questions they wanted to ask you. Are you ready?"
"Yeah," he said with a wave of his hand. "Go ahead."
"Okay, first up." She dug into the bag next to her chair and pulled out a letter.
"From Sarah in La Mirada: Dear Professor Eppes,
"Are you an actual genius or one of those people who only says they are but has never been tested?"
Charlie blinked. "Uh . . . What? Is that . . . Does it really say that?"
Brenda laughed. "Yeah. But we can skip it if you'd prefer. We've got a lot more to choose from."
"No, no that's fine. Um." He shook his head in amusement. "I actually have been tested, Sarah?" he asked.
Brenda nodded.
"Yeah, uh . . . Several times actually. When I was a kid and then again when I was in college and once or twice since then."
"And what is your IQ?" Brenda asked.
"Heh, uh, you know, I don't really like IQ tests. They're- Well, most of them aren't very objective and, I mean, who's to say what is a measure of intelligence anyway? Now, measuring cognitive abilities in terms of-"
A door opened in the back of the studio and Charlie saw Don enter.
"In terms of . . ." he mumbled, brows drawing down.
A very harried young woman with a clipboard and headset that had been stressed all morning went straight to Don and began a very quiet, but very thorough dressing down from the looks of it.
Don just flashed his badge and looked around until he saw Charlie.
He jerked his head in a hello, and stared across the sound stage.
"You can't-" The dressing down was no longer quiet. "NO, WAIT!"
Don was detained by the young woman who latched onto his arm and dug in her heels. He wasn't going to drag her, so he rolled his eyes and turned to talk.
"Charlie?" Brenda said.
"One seventy-eight."
"What?" Brenda blinked.
"My- My IQ. It's . . . one seventy-eight." He frowned.
He wasn't paying attention to her really, focused instead on Don and the rather excitable girl who was literally jumping up and down and poking Don in the chest with a very sharp finger.
It was terrifying and amusing to think that someone who probably didn't make five feet in heels was taking on his brother like that. Not that Don was a physically large man, but he had that sort of FBI presence that most people didn't question.
And a gun on his hip.
"Very impressive, Dr. Eppes," Brenda said. "Next question. Annabeth from San Diego wants to know what kind of shampoo you use."
"I-" His head whipped back around. "Wait, what?!"
Don was forgotten, Charlie's attention fully focused on Brenda now. "It does not say that."
Brenda laughed. "It does." She handed him the card and he took it and read it, then frowned.
"Why? Why would someone want to know what kind of shampoo I use?"
Brenda shrugged. "Fans obsess over strange things."
"Wow," Charlie ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "I've had fans before, but, uh, not . . . not like this."
"You do now." She gave him an appraising survey. "And you do have nice hair."
Charlie couldn't help the look he gave her.
"Sorry to interrupt, Charlie," Don said, stepping up onto the dais. Behind him stood the director-stage manager, whatever she was-seething and trying to burn a hole through his head with her eyes alone. "I need to borrow you. We got the tapes."
"We did?" Charlie shot up out of the chair and started to walk away, hoping the relief on his face wasn't that obvious.
"But-" Brenda said.
Don half turned and flashed a smile. "Sorry. FBI business. I'll bring him back." He faced forward and picked up the pace, prompting Charlie to do the same.
"You will not bring me back!" Charlie hissed. "Millie can find her funding somewhere else!"
Don just grinned. "Aw, come on, Charlie-"
"No. Just . . . No." He shuddered and Don laughed.
Once they were outside the stage and the door was shut Don said, "We found the tapes in Bronson's office by the way. Along with his very detailed records. We don't need you to analyze them now."
Charlie blinked. "Then why . . .?"
Don shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't say I never do anything for you, Chuck."