Fic: Any Other Friday
Title: Any Other Friday
Series/Universe: Any Other Friday
Pairings: Charlie/Don
Ratings: Adult
Words: 250, and it's late because I suck hard at deadlines.
Spoilers: None
Comments: Help me, Please! Tell me what works, and what doesn't. I give cookies for both. I originally planned to continue it, but after living with what's here for a while, I like it as-is. (and so did the birthday girl)
A/N For Raeyashi's birthday! I hope it was great!
Don's phone is ringing. He sees Charlie's number, doesn't want to answer, because last year Charlie sang to him. He wonders whether his brother will ever feel old.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Can you swing by Cal-Sci on your way home? I'm-- m-my office.”
“You forgot your wallet again.” He's so relieved not to hear “Happy Birthday” that he smiles.
Silence, then static flickers-- stubble and curls making themselves heard while Charlie blushes unseen.
“Gimme half an hour. Stay inside, it's late.” He starts to hope as the oily tang of garage air hits him. They can get Pad Thai, convince Dad that they're too drunk to leave the apartment, like any other Friday.
“Charlie? What the--”
He's leaning on the driver door of Don's SUV, reading Don like some equation that's one flash-connection away from perfect. Charlie's never used that focus on him before; Don has to clench his fists and make himself breathe. “You gonna move?”
“There's another door. No more talking.”
Charlie pounces the instant the passenger door shuts-- straddling him, sitting down hard on his thighs, yanking his shirt-tails up around his chest. Don's tie is still loosely knotted, the bulk of it pushing under his chin as Charlie's nails scrape a path from his nipples to his waistband. Those eyes bind him more effectively than any chain could, and Don's breath just stops when Charlie leans back and peels open his FBI slacks. Wicked hands curl around his cock, steady and firm. Just a few strokes and Don's gasping, what's left of his mind spinning with don't touch don't push don't change anything because this is nothing he'd ask of Charlie, nothing he ever knew he wanted. Tonight Don can imagine those hands hefting a .44, sliding home a clip, no need for a scope because Charlie's gaze is a laser.
That thought's disorienting enough to make him remember where they are. “Shit.” He twists to look for the security camera, and before he turns back Charlie's mostly off his lap.
“Just fucking drive, Don.”
They shuffle to get Don into the driver's seat, and the silence is awkward at first, but he drives fast.
Series/Universe: Any Other Friday
Pairings: Charlie/Don
Ratings: Adult
Words: 250, and it's late because I suck hard at deadlines.
Spoilers: None
Comments: Help me, Please! Tell me what works, and what doesn't. I give cookies for both. I originally planned to continue it, but after living with what's here for a while, I like it as-is. (and so did the birthday girl)
A/N For Raeyashi's birthday! I hope it was great!
Don's phone is ringing. He sees Charlie's number, doesn't want to answer, because last year Charlie sang to him. He wonders whether his brother will ever feel old.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Can you swing by Cal-Sci on your way home? I'm-- m-my office.”
“You forgot your wallet again.” He's so relieved not to hear “Happy Birthday” that he smiles.
Silence, then static flickers-- stubble and curls making themselves heard while Charlie blushes unseen.
“Gimme half an hour. Stay inside, it's late.” He starts to hope as the oily tang of garage air hits him. They can get Pad Thai, convince Dad that they're too drunk to leave the apartment, like any other Friday.
“Charlie? What the--”
He's leaning on the driver door of Don's SUV, reading Don like some equation that's one flash-connection away from perfect. Charlie's never used that focus on him before; Don has to clench his fists and make himself breathe. “You gonna move?”
“There's another door. No more talking.”
Charlie pounces the instant the passenger door shuts-- straddling him, sitting down hard on his thighs, yanking his shirt-tails up around his chest. Don's tie is still loosely knotted, the bulk of it pushing under his chin as Charlie's nails scrape a path from his nipples to his waistband. Those eyes bind him more effectively than any chain could, and Don's breath just stops when Charlie leans back and peels open his FBI slacks. Wicked hands curl around his cock, steady and firm. Just a few strokes and Don's gasping, what's left of his mind spinning with don't touch don't push don't change anything because this is nothing he'd ask of Charlie, nothing he ever knew he wanted. Tonight Don can imagine those hands hefting a .44, sliding home a clip, no need for a scope because Charlie's gaze is a laser.
That thought's disorienting enough to make him remember where they are. “Shit.” He twists to look for the security camera, and before he turns back Charlie's mostly off his lap.
“Just fucking drive, Don.”
They shuffle to get Don into the driver's seat, and the silence is awkward at first, but he drives fast.