Someplace Safe (1/2)
Title: Someplace Safe (1/2)
Prompts: (#192 Cabin)(#73 Bullet)(#82 Feast)(#42 Words)(#76 Girlfriend)(#62 Steam)(#174 Blood)(#155 Therapy)(#100 Tears) (#32 Metamorphosis)
Author: ladygray99
Pairing: Charlie/Ian
Rating: R
Word Count: 10x300
Warning: Self harm
Summery: “Get me out,” was all the text said.
Notes: Written for numb3rs100. This is not connected to my other Charlie/Ian ‘verse. This was meant to be just cabin smut, instead the plot fairy arrived dragging the angst bunny and the epic troll. This wasn’t easy to write on a story or technical level so I’d really like people’s thoughts on it. Thank you.
Beta: swingandswirl
Someplace Safe (#192 Cabin)
Ian inherited the cabin. He had no plans to get rid of it. He’d puttered around its dark wood rooms when injured or sick. He’d brought friends who were hiding or just needed to get away. Technically it was his only real home, but it had no address and existed on no map. His current guest could probably pinpoint it with a satellite but there was no need.
“Get me out,” was all the text said.
Ian had arrived to Amita shouting, Alan growling and Don throwing around orders that no one was listening to. Ian packed Charlie’s bag and the two of them walked out without a word.
Ian stirred the stove fire. Charlie was asleep. He’d been asleep for almost three days. On the second day he’d run a fever and thrashed with nightmares. Ian only woke him to pour fluids down his throat. He let the fever burn itself out.
There was a noise. Ian turned around. Charlie leaned against the wall of the kitchen, blinking in the dim evening light. “Where are we?” Charlie asked. He’d been asleep when they arrived.
“Someplace safe, out of the way.”
“Oh,” was Charlie’s only reply. He sat on a rough kitchen chair, studied the wood grain of the table.
“Are you hungry?” Ian asked. Charlie shrugged. Ian knew he hadn’t eaten in at least three days, probably more. “I’ll just make some noodles.”
Charlie reached out and ran his fingers along the logs of the cabin’s outer wall. Thick, they were cool in summer, warm in winter.
Charlie closed his eyes. “I killed a man, Ian,” he said softly.
“I know.” Ian had gathered as much from the shouting.
“How do you go back after something like that?”
Ian was many things, but he wasn’t a liar. “You don’t.”
Not My Shot (#73 Bullet)
“What happened?” Ian hadn’t stayed long enough to get the story.
“We didn’t think they’d come back for the computers. We sure as hell didn’t think they’d start shooting for the computers.”
“Who?”
“Russians.” Charlie became silent as the stove fire warmed the small kitchen. “It was just me and David. I just needed to get some data.”
“More data is always good.”
Charlie snorted in some sort of amusement. “David gave me his other gun.”
“Since when can you shoot?”
“I learned. That’s what I do, you know? I learn things.” Ian put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Charlie ran his fingers along the table top. “I saw him fall. I saw his chest…erupt. A tiny bullet. I didn’t... I didn’t think it was my bullet. My hands were shaking. I shouldn’t have made the shot. He fell. It was just one bullet.”
“It only takes one bullet,” Ian said carefully.
“It was a perfect shot. One bullet.” Charlie repeated, his fingers still tracing the pattern of wood grain on the table. “We didn’t know. They put David on leave. David swore the shot was his. They pulled a .9mm out of the body. David’s Glock shoots .40s. They brought it upstairs, put it in front of me, asked me if I was sure the shot wasn’t mine.” Charlie looked up at Ian. “My hands were shaking, Ian. I could feel them shake. It couldn’t have been my bullet.”
“It was. You took the shot, it was a good shot, you saved your life, you saved David’s life.” Ian knew this was the standard speech. Charlie had already heard it.
“I killed a man. How do I go back to how I was?”
“You don’t, Charlie. You can’t.”
“It was just one bullet.”
“I know.”
Noodles and Eggs (#82 Feast)
Charlie was silent as Ian boiled some noodles. Ian didn’t press him to talk. He put the bowl of noodles and butter in front of Charlie. Charlie stared at them.
“When did you last eat?”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
Charlie showed no surprise at missing three days. “Last Thursday, lunch, but I threw that up.”
“You need to eat. You’ve been sick.” Charlie shrugged but took a bite. He chewed slowly and took another bite. Ian could see when Charlie’s body overrode his mind. The third bite was barely chewed. The rest of the bowl was inhaled. “Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.” Charlie gave Ian a sharp look.
Ian pushed his own bowl over. He checked the fridge for something quick. Bacon and Eggs? He just grabbed the eggs. He couldn’t remember if Charlie was kosher; probably not, but after six days of no food bacon would probably make him sick either way. Ian cracked some eggs in a pan then threw in some slices of bread and a couple of tomatoes for vitamins.
Charlie looked at the spread. “No one’s made me fried tomatoes since Susan,” he said with a soft chuckle. Ian gave a questioning shrug. “Ex-girlfriend. She was English.”
“Ah. Eat up.”
Charlie dug in. For a moment the horrors of the previous week buried under a feast of a fry up and the demands of a neglected body.
Ian smiled watching Charlie lick up the last drop of egg from the plate, and buttery toast crumbs from his fingers.
“Feeling better?” Ian asked as he cleared the plates.
Charlie shrugged. “A little. But I shouldn’t.”
“Yes you should. Letting yourself eat is a good first step.”
“Which direction?”
“What?”
“A step in which direction? Where do I go now?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Words Carefully Chosen (#42 Words)
Ian tucked Charlie back into bed and slipped into a side room. He flipped some switches and the room hummed to life. It ran on solar in the summer and a little diesel generator in the winter. Ian was not completely technophobic. He’d built this room so he could get a little phone signal off a distant tower even at the bottom of his valley.
He hadn’t contacted anyone while Charlie was still sleeping. He’d wanted to talk to Charlie first but after three days, almost four, he was probably wanted for kidnapping Charlie.
Ian contemplated a quick text message to send to Don.
‘Did you really think shouting would help him get through?’
‘You never thought this wouldn’t happen sooner or later?’
‘Be damn thankful he did make the shot, you moron.’
‘He’s not an agent, you moronic asshole. You can’t just give him three days of leave and expect him to drink it out of his system.’
‘He’s an academic. You dragged him out of his ivory tower, stuck him in the line of fire, didn’t you think he might actually shoot back one day like a normal human? What did you think he was going to do, throw a math book at them? You should be thanking the gods of FBI agents he did shoot back or you’d be down one agent and a brother and tell your dad and that shrieking shrew of a girlfriend of his to back off! ’
Ian didn’t think those would go down well.
I’m still with Charlie. He’s OK. Doing better. Mainly been sleeping but got him to eat, talk a little. I’ll bring him home when he’s ready.
So much said, so much unsaid, in just a few words. It should at least buy them a few days of peace.
Perfection Lost (#76 Girlfriend)
Charlie pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate, the ravenous huger of the night before gone.
“Amita’s going to leave me. She’s probably left me already. She’s probably packed up her things and is staying with a friend until she can get her own apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said, though he didn’t necessarily think it was a bad thing.
Charlie shrugged. “She said I’m not the man she fell in love with anymore.”
“Who did she fall in love with?”
“Her math teacher who was cute and had never fired a gun and got squeamish at crime scenes.”
Ian smiled. “I think I remember that guy. He told me he didn’t believe in guns and pouted when I told him he was ten feet off.” Ian had wanted to kiss that pout but he didn’t mention that.
“She wants her cute little absentminded math teacher back,” Charlie continued. “She was a perfect girlfriend for him. She’d have made him a perfect wife, had perfect little genius babies, co-authored perfect little papers.”
“The cute little absentminded math teacher didn’t know what a gunshot sounded like and if I recall didn’t know when to duck and would be very dead by now,” Ian pointed out.
“She’s been trying to be the girlfriend of a man who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“One shot doesn’t change all of who you are.”
“Eighty homicide investigations, over a hundred bodies? Her boyfriend died the first time I spent eight hours analyzing blood splatter, then went out to dinner and ordered a rare steak and didn’t even think about it.” Charlie took a sip of his coffee. “I feel bad for her. She was a good girlfriend. I just wish the man she loved still existed. Could exist.”
“Pieces of him are still there.”
“Not enough of them.”
Perspectives on Fluid Dynamics (#62 Steam)
Steam rolled from the bathroom lined in cedar. The water was warmed by pipes running behind the cook stove. It was better than most home systems. The water came out nearly scalding after dinner. Ian shut the door behind him, trapping the warm air.
Charlie looked petite in the giant tub, the steam rising from the water giving him an unreal look. Charlie didn’t look over as Ian put down the spare towels. Ian watched as Charlie waved his hand through columns of steam, the wet warmth beginning to peel a bandage off his arm. Ian let his eyes linger in a way he never allowed himself outside of idle fantasy.
“I used to work in fluid dynamics,” Charlie said, not looking over. “I’d spend all my days thinking about the movement of water in all forms, ice, liquid, steam.”
“Was it interesting?”
“It was lucrative. Four America’s Cup-winning yachts were designed off my calculations. Rich idiots pay good money if you can make their boats go fast.” Charlie trailed a hand through the water the same way he had traced the wood grain on the table. “I should have stuck with it, bought a house on the Mediterranean, built pleasure yachts, speed boats, fucked trophy wives on the beach while their husbands were out jetting around in expensive toys.”
Ian stepped closer to the tub and looked down at Charlie, his legs pulled to his chest. “Would you have been happy?” Charlie waved his hand through the steam as if he could wave away the question. “Would you have been happy?” Ian asked again.
“I wouldn’t be this,” Charlie said, his voice only a tight whisper.
“There’s nothing wrong with what you are.”
Charlie turned to him for the first time since entering.
“I killed a man.”
“I know.”
A Question of Blood (#174 Blood)
Ian sat by the side of the tub. He took Charlie’s arm carefully but without asking. The bandage, halfway up his forearm, was wet and half peeled off. Ian peeked beneath it then gave a quick yank. Charlie closed his eyes quickly but made no noise. He didn’t even wince.
Ian examined the cut, held together by tidy stitches that ran across Charlie’s arm. “You’re smart enough to have done it right. Why’d you do this?” Ian asked.
“I calculated how much blood he lost. I calculated it as it was pooling on the floor. I wanted to know what it felt like, that much blood just leaving.”
Ian looked carefully at the wound. It was a little inflamed but not bad. “It doesn’t look infected.”
“I sterilized the knife first.” Charlie looked up at Ian. “I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to know.”
“It was still stupid.” Charlie shrugged. Ian didn’t let his arm go. “How much did you lose?”
“About two units, judging by the rate of flow. Hard to tell, though. I must clot well, I kept having to cut it again.”
“Two units is still a lot.” Charlie should have gotten a transfusion. Ian looked but he didn’t see any signs of needles or IVs on Charlie’s hands or wrists.
“He lost more.” Charlie said flatly.
“He’s dead.”
“And is my life worth more than his?”
Ian was in no mood for philosophy. He killed people for a living and knew the value of a human life. Some weren’t worth the blood in their veins. “Actually, yes.” Charlie still hadn’t tried to remove his arm from Ian’s hands. “Who put in these stitches?” They were tidy but not quite right.
“Colby.”
“Ten bucks says he was an Eagle Scout. I’ll get some fresh bandages.”
Fix It If You Can (#155 Therapy)
Ian dubbed it occupational therapy as he drove Charlie from the front door into the daylight. There was stuff that needed to be done that Ian hadn’t been willing to do while Charlie slept, not wanting him to wake alone in a strange place.
He ushered Charlie up a ladder to the roof, keeping a close eye. It wasn’t that high but high enough.
“Tell me if you get dizzy.”
“I used to climb rocks. What are we doing up here?” Ian handed Charlie a wrench. “The last time I used one of these I almost flooded my own house.”
“Well, it’s time to learn something new. That’s what you do isn’t it?” Charlie turned the wrench around in his hands. “The wind comes down the valley, gets under the solar panels, rattles them loose. Just reach under each panel, find the bolts, tighten them, then brush the stuff off. It’ll get us a bit more power.”
Charlie looked suspicious but crawled down the roof to the first panel. Ian stayed close, checking the connections. Charlie fiddled with the wrench a bit.
“Don and my Dad redid the roof on the house right after Mom died. It didn’t need it. Just woke up one morning and they were on the roof, taking it apart, putting it back together.”
Ian reached under a panel and cleared out a chipmunk nest. “There’s something to be said for fixing things that can be fixed rather than banging your head against things you can’t.”
Charlie remained silent and just slowly worked his way down the row of panels. Ian knew he could do it in half the time, but Charlie was getting better with the wrench and the fresh air and sunshine would be good for him. A second step in the right direction.
The Sum of our Tears (#100 Tears)
It took three days of routine. Sleeping, eating, doing chores, no math. Charlie didn’t even ask for a pencil.
Ian woke to a soft sound, expected but out of place. Charlie was sitting up in his small bed clutching his knees. Even in the dark Ian knew much needed tears were falling. Ian lit a candle to see and sat on the edge of the bed. Charlie’s eyes glistened and the flicker of the candle was reflected in the salty drops running down his face.
Ian put down the candle and pulled Charlie close. Charlie didn’t struggle or object, just held tight and sobbed against Ian’s chest. Ian could feel the hot tears pooled in Charlie’s eyes pressing against his skin, Charlie’s small frame heaving in his arms. Ian rocked him gently and stroked Charlie’s hair for what little comfort it gave.
Ian watched the candle burn low, the wax running like the tears.
When the candle was nearly gone Charlie’s breathing began to slow. He looked up at Ian.
“I...” His voice cracked. “I killed a man.” He said it like he had just realized it.
“Yes.” Ian replied softly, not sure what to say.
“I don’t know what to do?”
Ian brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. “You keep going. Go or stop, there’s nothing in between and if you were going to stop you would have done it long before now, so you have to keep going.”
Charlie blinked out a few more tears. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Ian brushed some loose strand of hair from Charlie’s face. “You won’t be.”
Charlie lay back down and Ian lay down with him, holding him close, breathing softly. Charlie began to cry again but Ian had Charlie safe in his arms so didn’t mind.
Change in its own Time (#32 Metamorphosis)
Ian found Charlie standing in front of the small bathroom mirror. Charlie was running his fingertips along his face and neck and across his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asks.
“I don’t feel right.” Charlie held out his hand and curled his fingers like he was doing a medical test on himself. “Every time I move it feels wrong, it feels like my skin isn’t attached right. I keep expecting it to crack open, or fall off, or something.”
Charlie closed his eyes and went back to running his hands across his skin. Reassuring himself it was still attached or something.
Ian swallowed hard and tried to steady his thoughts the same way he steadied his body on the job. “You’re changing, adapting, evolving maybe. It’ll take some time to get used to it.”
Charlie stretched, arching his back. “Everything feels tight. I feel like I need to just peel off my skin.”
“That might get a little messy.”
Charlie laced his fingers deep into his own hair and began pulling on it, his face quickly contorted in pain and frustration.
Ian stepped close and took Charlie’s hands from his hair. “That’s enough.” Charlie collapsed in on himself and leaned back against Ian.
“What am I changing into?”
Ian indulged himself and let a hand run down Charlie’s torso in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “You’re changing into you.”
“I’ve never been good at being me.” Charlie mumbled half to himself. “Never really figured out how to live with myself.”
“Maybe you just haven’t found the right you, yet.”
Charlie gave a slight chuckle. “I don’t think this new me is going to be an improvement.”
“I don’t know. I think he’ll be strong, I think he’ll know what he wants.”
Charlie blinked. “What if I don’t want anything?”
Next
Prompts: (#192 Cabin)(#73 Bullet)(#82 Feast)(#42 Words)(#76 Girlfriend)(#62 Steam)(#174 Blood)(#155 Therapy)(#100 Tears) (#32 Metamorphosis)
Author: ladygray99
Pairing: Charlie/Ian
Rating: R
Word Count: 10x300
Warning: Self harm
Summery: “Get me out,” was all the text said.
Notes: Written for numb3rs100. This is not connected to my other Charlie/Ian ‘verse. This was meant to be just cabin smut, instead the plot fairy arrived dragging the angst bunny and the epic troll. This wasn’t easy to write on a story or technical level so I’d really like people’s thoughts on it. Thank you.
Beta: swingandswirl
Someplace Safe (#192 Cabin)
Ian inherited the cabin. He had no plans to get rid of it. He’d puttered around its dark wood rooms when injured or sick. He’d brought friends who were hiding or just needed to get away. Technically it was his only real home, but it had no address and existed on no map. His current guest could probably pinpoint it with a satellite but there was no need.
“Get me out,” was all the text said.
Ian had arrived to Amita shouting, Alan growling and Don throwing around orders that no one was listening to. Ian packed Charlie’s bag and the two of them walked out without a word.
Ian stirred the stove fire. Charlie was asleep. He’d been asleep for almost three days. On the second day he’d run a fever and thrashed with nightmares. Ian only woke him to pour fluids down his throat. He let the fever burn itself out.
There was a noise. Ian turned around. Charlie leaned against the wall of the kitchen, blinking in the dim evening light. “Where are we?” Charlie asked. He’d been asleep when they arrived.
“Someplace safe, out of the way.”
“Oh,” was Charlie’s only reply. He sat on a rough kitchen chair, studied the wood grain of the table.
“Are you hungry?” Ian asked. Charlie shrugged. Ian knew he hadn’t eaten in at least three days, probably more. “I’ll just make some noodles.”
Charlie reached out and ran his fingers along the logs of the cabin’s outer wall. Thick, they were cool in summer, warm in winter.
Charlie closed his eyes. “I killed a man, Ian,” he said softly.
“I know.” Ian had gathered as much from the shouting.
“How do you go back after something like that?”
Ian was many things, but he wasn’t a liar. “You don’t.”
Not My Shot (#73 Bullet)
“What happened?” Ian hadn’t stayed long enough to get the story.
“We didn’t think they’d come back for the computers. We sure as hell didn’t think they’d start shooting for the computers.”
“Who?”
“Russians.” Charlie became silent as the stove fire warmed the small kitchen. “It was just me and David. I just needed to get some data.”
“More data is always good.”
Charlie snorted in some sort of amusement. “David gave me his other gun.”
“Since when can you shoot?”
“I learned. That’s what I do, you know? I learn things.” Ian put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Charlie ran his fingers along the table top. “I saw him fall. I saw his chest…erupt. A tiny bullet. I didn’t... I didn’t think it was my bullet. My hands were shaking. I shouldn’t have made the shot. He fell. It was just one bullet.”
“It only takes one bullet,” Ian said carefully.
“It was a perfect shot. One bullet.” Charlie repeated, his fingers still tracing the pattern of wood grain on the table. “We didn’t know. They put David on leave. David swore the shot was his. They pulled a .9mm out of the body. David’s Glock shoots .40s. They brought it upstairs, put it in front of me, asked me if I was sure the shot wasn’t mine.” Charlie looked up at Ian. “My hands were shaking, Ian. I could feel them shake. It couldn’t have been my bullet.”
“It was. You took the shot, it was a good shot, you saved your life, you saved David’s life.” Ian knew this was the standard speech. Charlie had already heard it.
“I killed a man. How do I go back to how I was?”
“You don’t, Charlie. You can’t.”
“It was just one bullet.”
“I know.”
Noodles and Eggs (#82 Feast)
Charlie was silent as Ian boiled some noodles. Ian didn’t press him to talk. He put the bowl of noodles and butter in front of Charlie. Charlie stared at them.
“When did you last eat?”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
Charlie showed no surprise at missing three days. “Last Thursday, lunch, but I threw that up.”
“You need to eat. You’ve been sick.” Charlie shrugged but took a bite. He chewed slowly and took another bite. Ian could see when Charlie’s body overrode his mind. The third bite was barely chewed. The rest of the bowl was inhaled. “Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.” Charlie gave Ian a sharp look.
Ian pushed his own bowl over. He checked the fridge for something quick. Bacon and Eggs? He just grabbed the eggs. He couldn’t remember if Charlie was kosher; probably not, but after six days of no food bacon would probably make him sick either way. Ian cracked some eggs in a pan then threw in some slices of bread and a couple of tomatoes for vitamins.
Charlie looked at the spread. “No one’s made me fried tomatoes since Susan,” he said with a soft chuckle. Ian gave a questioning shrug. “Ex-girlfriend. She was English.”
“Ah. Eat up.”
Charlie dug in. For a moment the horrors of the previous week buried under a feast of a fry up and the demands of a neglected body.
Ian smiled watching Charlie lick up the last drop of egg from the plate, and buttery toast crumbs from his fingers.
“Feeling better?” Ian asked as he cleared the plates.
Charlie shrugged. “A little. But I shouldn’t.”
“Yes you should. Letting yourself eat is a good first step.”
“Which direction?”
“What?”
“A step in which direction? Where do I go now?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Words Carefully Chosen (#42 Words)
Ian tucked Charlie back into bed and slipped into a side room. He flipped some switches and the room hummed to life. It ran on solar in the summer and a little diesel generator in the winter. Ian was not completely technophobic. He’d built this room so he could get a little phone signal off a distant tower even at the bottom of his valley.
He hadn’t contacted anyone while Charlie was still sleeping. He’d wanted to talk to Charlie first but after three days, almost four, he was probably wanted for kidnapping Charlie.
Ian contemplated a quick text message to send to Don.
‘Did you really think shouting would help him get through?’
‘You never thought this wouldn’t happen sooner or later?’
‘Be damn thankful he did make the shot, you moron.’
‘He’s not an agent, you moronic asshole. You can’t just give him three days of leave and expect him to drink it out of his system.’
‘He’s an academic. You dragged him out of his ivory tower, stuck him in the line of fire, didn’t you think he might actually shoot back one day like a normal human? What did you think he was going to do, throw a math book at them? You should be thanking the gods of FBI agents he did shoot back or you’d be down one agent and a brother and tell your dad and that shrieking shrew of a girlfriend of his to back off! ’
Ian didn’t think those would go down well.
I’m still with Charlie. He’s OK. Doing better. Mainly been sleeping but got him to eat, talk a little. I’ll bring him home when he’s ready.
So much said, so much unsaid, in just a few words. It should at least buy them a few days of peace.
Perfection Lost (#76 Girlfriend)
Charlie pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate, the ravenous huger of the night before gone.
“Amita’s going to leave me. She’s probably left me already. She’s probably packed up her things and is staying with a friend until she can get her own apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said, though he didn’t necessarily think it was a bad thing.
Charlie shrugged. “She said I’m not the man she fell in love with anymore.”
“Who did she fall in love with?”
“Her math teacher who was cute and had never fired a gun and got squeamish at crime scenes.”
Ian smiled. “I think I remember that guy. He told me he didn’t believe in guns and pouted when I told him he was ten feet off.” Ian had wanted to kiss that pout but he didn’t mention that.
“She wants her cute little absentminded math teacher back,” Charlie continued. “She was a perfect girlfriend for him. She’d have made him a perfect wife, had perfect little genius babies, co-authored perfect little papers.”
“The cute little absentminded math teacher didn’t know what a gunshot sounded like and if I recall didn’t know when to duck and would be very dead by now,” Ian pointed out.
“She’s been trying to be the girlfriend of a man who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“One shot doesn’t change all of who you are.”
“Eighty homicide investigations, over a hundred bodies? Her boyfriend died the first time I spent eight hours analyzing blood splatter, then went out to dinner and ordered a rare steak and didn’t even think about it.” Charlie took a sip of his coffee. “I feel bad for her. She was a good girlfriend. I just wish the man she loved still existed. Could exist.”
“Pieces of him are still there.”
“Not enough of them.”
Perspectives on Fluid Dynamics (#62 Steam)
Steam rolled from the bathroom lined in cedar. The water was warmed by pipes running behind the cook stove. It was better than most home systems. The water came out nearly scalding after dinner. Ian shut the door behind him, trapping the warm air.
Charlie looked petite in the giant tub, the steam rising from the water giving him an unreal look. Charlie didn’t look over as Ian put down the spare towels. Ian watched as Charlie waved his hand through columns of steam, the wet warmth beginning to peel a bandage off his arm. Ian let his eyes linger in a way he never allowed himself outside of idle fantasy.
“I used to work in fluid dynamics,” Charlie said, not looking over. “I’d spend all my days thinking about the movement of water in all forms, ice, liquid, steam.”
“Was it interesting?”
“It was lucrative. Four America’s Cup-winning yachts were designed off my calculations. Rich idiots pay good money if you can make their boats go fast.” Charlie trailed a hand through the water the same way he had traced the wood grain on the table. “I should have stuck with it, bought a house on the Mediterranean, built pleasure yachts, speed boats, fucked trophy wives on the beach while their husbands were out jetting around in expensive toys.”
Ian stepped closer to the tub and looked down at Charlie, his legs pulled to his chest. “Would you have been happy?” Charlie waved his hand through the steam as if he could wave away the question. “Would you have been happy?” Ian asked again.
“I wouldn’t be this,” Charlie said, his voice only a tight whisper.
“There’s nothing wrong with what you are.”
Charlie turned to him for the first time since entering.
“I killed a man.”
“I know.”
A Question of Blood (#174 Blood)
Ian sat by the side of the tub. He took Charlie’s arm carefully but without asking. The bandage, halfway up his forearm, was wet and half peeled off. Ian peeked beneath it then gave a quick yank. Charlie closed his eyes quickly but made no noise. He didn’t even wince.
Ian examined the cut, held together by tidy stitches that ran across Charlie’s arm. “You’re smart enough to have done it right. Why’d you do this?” Ian asked.
“I calculated how much blood he lost. I calculated it as it was pooling on the floor. I wanted to know what it felt like, that much blood just leaving.”
Ian looked carefully at the wound. It was a little inflamed but not bad. “It doesn’t look infected.”
“I sterilized the knife first.” Charlie looked up at Ian. “I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to know.”
“It was still stupid.” Charlie shrugged. Ian didn’t let his arm go. “How much did you lose?”
“About two units, judging by the rate of flow. Hard to tell, though. I must clot well, I kept having to cut it again.”
“Two units is still a lot.” Charlie should have gotten a transfusion. Ian looked but he didn’t see any signs of needles or IVs on Charlie’s hands or wrists.
“He lost more.” Charlie said flatly.
“He’s dead.”
“And is my life worth more than his?”
Ian was in no mood for philosophy. He killed people for a living and knew the value of a human life. Some weren’t worth the blood in their veins. “Actually, yes.” Charlie still hadn’t tried to remove his arm from Ian’s hands. “Who put in these stitches?” They were tidy but not quite right.
“Colby.”
“Ten bucks says he was an Eagle Scout. I’ll get some fresh bandages.”
Fix It If You Can (#155 Therapy)
Ian dubbed it occupational therapy as he drove Charlie from the front door into the daylight. There was stuff that needed to be done that Ian hadn’t been willing to do while Charlie slept, not wanting him to wake alone in a strange place.
He ushered Charlie up a ladder to the roof, keeping a close eye. It wasn’t that high but high enough.
“Tell me if you get dizzy.”
“I used to climb rocks. What are we doing up here?” Ian handed Charlie a wrench. “The last time I used one of these I almost flooded my own house.”
“Well, it’s time to learn something new. That’s what you do isn’t it?” Charlie turned the wrench around in his hands. “The wind comes down the valley, gets under the solar panels, rattles them loose. Just reach under each panel, find the bolts, tighten them, then brush the stuff off. It’ll get us a bit more power.”
Charlie looked suspicious but crawled down the roof to the first panel. Ian stayed close, checking the connections. Charlie fiddled with the wrench a bit.
“Don and my Dad redid the roof on the house right after Mom died. It didn’t need it. Just woke up one morning and they were on the roof, taking it apart, putting it back together.”
Ian reached under a panel and cleared out a chipmunk nest. “There’s something to be said for fixing things that can be fixed rather than banging your head against things you can’t.”
Charlie remained silent and just slowly worked his way down the row of panels. Ian knew he could do it in half the time, but Charlie was getting better with the wrench and the fresh air and sunshine would be good for him. A second step in the right direction.
The Sum of our Tears (#100 Tears)
It took three days of routine. Sleeping, eating, doing chores, no math. Charlie didn’t even ask for a pencil.
Ian woke to a soft sound, expected but out of place. Charlie was sitting up in his small bed clutching his knees. Even in the dark Ian knew much needed tears were falling. Ian lit a candle to see and sat on the edge of the bed. Charlie’s eyes glistened and the flicker of the candle was reflected in the salty drops running down his face.
Ian put down the candle and pulled Charlie close. Charlie didn’t struggle or object, just held tight and sobbed against Ian’s chest. Ian could feel the hot tears pooled in Charlie’s eyes pressing against his skin, Charlie’s small frame heaving in his arms. Ian rocked him gently and stroked Charlie’s hair for what little comfort it gave.
Ian watched the candle burn low, the wax running like the tears.
When the candle was nearly gone Charlie’s breathing began to slow. He looked up at Ian.
“I...” His voice cracked. “I killed a man.” He said it like he had just realized it.
“Yes.” Ian replied softly, not sure what to say.
“I don’t know what to do?”
Ian brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. “You keep going. Go or stop, there’s nothing in between and if you were going to stop you would have done it long before now, so you have to keep going.”
Charlie blinked out a few more tears. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Ian brushed some loose strand of hair from Charlie’s face. “You won’t be.”
Charlie lay back down and Ian lay down with him, holding him close, breathing softly. Charlie began to cry again but Ian had Charlie safe in his arms so didn’t mind.
Change in its own Time (#32 Metamorphosis)
Ian found Charlie standing in front of the small bathroom mirror. Charlie was running his fingertips along his face and neck and across his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asks.
“I don’t feel right.” Charlie held out his hand and curled his fingers like he was doing a medical test on himself. “Every time I move it feels wrong, it feels like my skin isn’t attached right. I keep expecting it to crack open, or fall off, or something.”
Charlie closed his eyes and went back to running his hands across his skin. Reassuring himself it was still attached or something.
Ian swallowed hard and tried to steady his thoughts the same way he steadied his body on the job. “You’re changing, adapting, evolving maybe. It’ll take some time to get used to it.”
Charlie stretched, arching his back. “Everything feels tight. I feel like I need to just peel off my skin.”
“That might get a little messy.”
Charlie laced his fingers deep into his own hair and began pulling on it, his face quickly contorted in pain and frustration.
Ian stepped close and took Charlie’s hands from his hair. “That’s enough.” Charlie collapsed in on himself and leaned back against Ian.
“What am I changing into?”
Ian indulged himself and let a hand run down Charlie’s torso in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “You’re changing into you.”
“I’ve never been good at being me.” Charlie mumbled half to himself. “Never really figured out how to live with myself.”
“Maybe you just haven’t found the right you, yet.”
Charlie gave a slight chuckle. “I don’t think this new me is going to be an improvement.”
“I don’t know. I think he’ll be strong, I think he’ll know what he wants.”
Charlie blinked. “What if I don’t want anything?”
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