Numb3rs fic: I Memorize and I Forget (Charlie/Amita, R)
HEY, I finished it on time! \o/
Title: I Memorize and I Forget
Author: sororcula
Pairing/Characters: Charlie/Amita
Rating: R for sexual content
Summary: Where have you always wanted to go? Pick a few countries. The trip's on me.
Word Count: 630
Spoilers: none, really. Maybe very slight for 2x14 "Harvest."
Notes/Warnings: Unbetaed. First time writing this pairing without adding Don to make it a love triangle. Title from "10 Million Miles" by Patty Griffin. Thanks to ignipes, world traveler extraordinaire, for her help with the India section. :-)
Prompt/Challenge: "Foreign" for the numb3rs_het fic challenge.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just playing with them for a bit.
On her birthday she enters her office to find a travel website displayed on her computer screen. Stuck to the monitor is a post-it note, covered in Charlie's scrawl: Where have you always wanted to go? Pick a few countries. The trip's on me.
That night, he cooks her dinner and they discuss travel plans over kisses and champagne. He digs out a globe and they spin it on the dining room table during dessert, ice cream-sticky fingers hopping from country to country. She insists on paying for half of it and they bargain until he agrees to let her buy all of the souvenirs, which he jokingly says will cost more, anyway.
In Amsterdam they rent bikes and ride through the city, practicing their "Goedemorgens" and "Hallos" on obliging locals.
At night they find the Red Light District and enter an adult store, where Amita teases him with the toys until he actually buys one; then it's her turn to blush. She can't keep her eyes off his satisfied grin as they walk back to their hotel. When they get there he fucks her harder than ever before, driving thoughts of anything but him from her mind when she comes.
He doesn't want to go to Germany, so they don't.
Paris is romantic; they drink wine and eat their fill of brie and baguette in between sightseeing. The Louvre is filled with hidden math, keeping them entranced for hours as they walk through hand in hand, only parting to gesture, tracing a curve or angle in the air.
A stranger snaps their picture as she kisses him in front of the Eiffel Tower. They chase him down to give him their address and in broken French ask him to send them a copy, s'il vous plait.
London has him quiet. He knows his way around the city, navigating the Tube easily and pointing out the sights to Amita, but he looks annoyed when she asks about his past there so she stops.
It rains every day they're there and on the third day they use the excuse to stay inside and rest. She writes postcards by the window while he watches British comedies from the bed. When she's finished she joins him. At some point the TV is shut off.
Chennai is every bit as amazing as she remembered it, almost overwhelming with its panoply of colors and smells. A heady scent of rich spices she can never quite find replicated in LA hangs over everything, mixing with the car exhaust in the air. Charlie stares unabashedly when she puts on her sari and they roam the streets, holding tight to their money except when they part with it to buy sparkly, beaded souvenirs.
They argue in Greece and he leaves the room angrily, but he returns a few hours later with a platter of fruit and thick, strong yogurt sweetened with honey. He asks her forgiveness with gentle kisses up her thighs and receives it with every moan she gives him. After, they sit on the balcony together and share bites of fruit while they look at the ocean. She falls asleep on his shoulder.
They come home with an extra bag of luggage and a thumb drive full of pictures. Don makes a point of checking Amita's hand for an engagement ring and shakes his head at Charlie when he finds none there.
"If you don't hurry up, Charlie," he teases, "I might have to make my move."
Amita slips her hand into Charlie's and squeezes. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll tell him no when he asks."
A month later, a package arrives from France; a black and white photograph, already framed. It looks perfect on her bedroom wall.
*
Title: I Memorize and I Forget
Author: sororcula
Pairing/Characters: Charlie/Amita
Rating: R for sexual content
Summary: Where have you always wanted to go? Pick a few countries. The trip's on me.
Word Count: 630
Spoilers: none, really. Maybe very slight for 2x14 "Harvest."
Notes/Warnings: Unbetaed. First time writing this pairing without adding Don to make it a love triangle. Title from "10 Million Miles" by Patty Griffin. Thanks to ignipes, world traveler extraordinaire, for her help with the India section. :-)
Prompt/Challenge: "Foreign" for the numb3rs_het fic challenge.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just playing with them for a bit.
On her birthday she enters her office to find a travel website displayed on her computer screen. Stuck to the monitor is a post-it note, covered in Charlie's scrawl: Where have you always wanted to go? Pick a few countries. The trip's on me.
That night, he cooks her dinner and they discuss travel plans over kisses and champagne. He digs out a globe and they spin it on the dining room table during dessert, ice cream-sticky fingers hopping from country to country. She insists on paying for half of it and they bargain until he agrees to let her buy all of the souvenirs, which he jokingly says will cost more, anyway.
In Amsterdam they rent bikes and ride through the city, practicing their "Goedemorgens" and "Hallos" on obliging locals.
At night they find the Red Light District and enter an adult store, where Amita teases him with the toys until he actually buys one; then it's her turn to blush. She can't keep her eyes off his satisfied grin as they walk back to their hotel. When they get there he fucks her harder than ever before, driving thoughts of anything but him from her mind when she comes.
He doesn't want to go to Germany, so they don't.
Paris is romantic; they drink wine and eat their fill of brie and baguette in between sightseeing. The Louvre is filled with hidden math, keeping them entranced for hours as they walk through hand in hand, only parting to gesture, tracing a curve or angle in the air.
A stranger snaps their picture as she kisses him in front of the Eiffel Tower. They chase him down to give him their address and in broken French ask him to send them a copy, s'il vous plait.
London has him quiet. He knows his way around the city, navigating the Tube easily and pointing out the sights to Amita, but he looks annoyed when she asks about his past there so she stops.
It rains every day they're there and on the third day they use the excuse to stay inside and rest. She writes postcards by the window while he watches British comedies from the bed. When she's finished she joins him. At some point the TV is shut off.
Chennai is every bit as amazing as she remembered it, almost overwhelming with its panoply of colors and smells. A heady scent of rich spices she can never quite find replicated in LA hangs over everything, mixing with the car exhaust in the air. Charlie stares unabashedly when she puts on her sari and they roam the streets, holding tight to their money except when they part with it to buy sparkly, beaded souvenirs.
They argue in Greece and he leaves the room angrily, but he returns a few hours later with a platter of fruit and thick, strong yogurt sweetened with honey. He asks her forgiveness with gentle kisses up her thighs and receives it with every moan she gives him. After, they sit on the balcony together and share bites of fruit while they look at the ocean. She falls asleep on his shoulder.
They come home with an extra bag of luggage and a thumb drive full of pictures. Don makes a point of checking Amita's hand for an engagement ring and shakes his head at Charlie when he finds none there.
"If you don't hurry up, Charlie," he teases, "I might have to make my move."
Amita slips her hand into Charlie's and squeezes. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll tell him no when he asks."
A month later, a package arrives from France; a black and white photograph, already framed. It looks perfect on her bedroom wall.
*