"The path is endless, but many rewards are offered along the way. One could do worse than follow the gleam of numbers."
--Excursions in Number Theory, Ogilvy and Anderson
After the Brutus case--after the "we" and the high five and Charlie sharing credit for the idea with Colby--everybody on the team seemed to decide that Colby was their emissary to the geek side, like he'd been secretly one of them all along. Colby spent a lot of time watching Charlie figure things out and listening to him explain them. Even if most of the time he just kept his mouth shut and waited for Charlie to break it down, he couldn't help wanting to understand.
At first it was just googling some of the things Charlie said, but then Colby lost an hour one morning--on his day off--looking at Wikipedia articles about number theory and network analysis. He thought it was weird, grumbled to himself about Charlie getting into his head, and then got the hell out of his apartment. When he bought a slender little book with brightly colored numbers on the cover and a note in the introduction that promised he only needed high school math to follow it, he told himself it was for work. Knowing a little math was a matter of professional performance, just like keeping in shape and hitting the shooting range regularly--but finding a way to slip a reference to Fibonacci or Fourier into conversation with Charlie was never going to help solve a case, and the little jolt Colby got when Charlie smiled at him, surprised and pleased, was a long goddamn way from professional.
Charlie wasn't even talking about math anymore. He was talking about talking about math, and it was still fascinating and--Colby was drunk enough to admit to himself now that Don had left the bar--kind of hot.
"I always wanted to make myself understood, you know?" Charlie said, with a too-wide gesture, eyes too bright. Charlie had had as much to drink as Colby--maybe more--and Charlie had a hell of a lot less body mass to spread it out over. "When I was a kid, that was the worst thing--I knew this stuff, but I didn't know how to tell anybody."
Colby nodded, sprawling on his side of the booth and watching Charlie's lips move. That made sense; Charlie was a good teacher. Charlie could make FBI agents give a shit about math, because it was the making people give a shit that mattered to him as much as the math.
Charlie stopped talking long enough to take another long drink of beer, and Colby stared, watching Charlie's throat work as he tipped his head back. The empty glass hit the table heavily when Charlie set it down, and then he was off again, talking about how math wasn't really hard, people just got intimidated by the modality. Colby nodded gamely.
Amita had been the first to leave, and she'd gone without a parting touch for Charlie or a backward glance. Everyone but Charlie had watched her go; Charlie had kept his eyes on his beer. He'd been drinking single-mindedly since then as the others went home one by one, and in the end Colby had given Don his word--well, not his word, but his sideways glance and shallow nod--that he would absolutely, for certain, and without fail make sure Charlie got home safely.
Colby had been thinking that mission was going to involve bodily removing Charlie from the bar to a cab at closing time, but then Charlie had started talking, which meant they'd both continued drinking, and Colby knew he was in much, much worse trouble than that. Somehow, he wasn't at all tempted to call in backup.
Charlie had started organizing the empty glasses on the table between them into two rows.
"In fact," he was saying, "in some areas of the world people developed a whole system of multiplication by base two--they could multiply any two numbers simply by doubling or halving."
Colby squinted at the glasses. There had been something about this in the book he'd read. Charlie kept talking, gathering up the crunchy orange cheese things lingering in the bottom of the bowls of bar mix. When he started dropping them into glasses, seven in one and nine in the other, they made a soft rattle like cereal in a bowl. Colby watched Charlie's hands as his fingers carefully counted them out: seven, fourteen, twenty-eight, and fifty-six. The fifty-six went into the glass closest to Colby, which meant Charlie was leaning halfway across the table, momentarily silent, lips parted and showing his tongue and teeth.
Colby shifted a little, leaning sideways and staring at the glasses and piles of cheese things and trying to remember what the book said, trying to think of anything but Charlie's fingers--Charlie's tongue--Charlie drunk and expressive and alone with him. Multiplication, base two, halving and doubling because dividing by two or multiplying by two was just a way of counting by twos.
Charlie was explaining it--that there were nine and four and two and one in the division column, and that we rule out--
"Even houses," Colby remembered abruptly, everything sliding into place, loose and too easy to pretend not to understand.
Charlie fell silent, tilting his head and staring.
"Even houses are evil houses and we don't count them," Colby said.
He leaned across the table, reaching for the glasses, his hand not quite brushing Charlie's.
"Because it's--it's--place value, right? Even numbers in base two are like multiples of ten in base ten. Represented by a--a higher--"
Colby waved at the glass that held fifty-six cheese things, and Charlie was nodding at him, smiling that lethal, startled smile as he sat back, pleased with Colby for getting it, pleased to have made himself understood.
Colby looked down at the glasses, scooting the middle two out of the way with unsteady hands. Charlie really had to stop smiling at him like that--Colby really had to stop trying to make Charlie smile at him like that, because it was just--just--
"Colby?"
Colby looked up without thinking, and Charlie had stopped smiling and was looking at him, head tilted and eyes a little narrowed, and Colby just stared back, mouth hanging open. Charlie smiled, a slow widening curve of his lips that Colby hadn't seen before--not directed at him, anyway.
"Oh," Charlie said, and Colby realized that he'd made himself understood to Charlie without meaning to at all.
"Sixty-three," Colby blurted, because that was the answer.
Charlie just smiled wider, and tugged Colby's hand away from the glasses. "Maybe we should go."
Charlie was holding his hand in some shitty bar on a Friday night, smiling at Colby like this was the best idea in the world, and Colby was too drunk not to agree with him.
"Yeah," Colby said, standing up, "Yeah, I think we should."
They made it as far as the curb. Colby stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking for a cab and already wondering what they were doing here, how this was going to play out--and then Charlie caught his hand again and said, "Hey, come here."
Colby turned to look and Charlie was pulling him into the narrow alley down the side of the bar--just wide enough for a supply truck, judging by the long streaks of paint decorating the brick on one side. Charlie led him halfway to the back, past a doorway surrounded by cigarette butts, muttering about traffic flow and light intensity. Colby couldn't follow it, but he was pretty sure Charlie was telling him the math that meant no one would see them back here, and Colby was, as always, willing to take Charlie's word for it.
Charlie stopped and turned back, looking up at Colby with a lazy hint of that damn smile on his mouth, and Colby just couldn't resist anymore. He pushed Charlie to the wall, kissing him as he went, but they broke apart when Charlie's back hit the bricks a little less gently than Colby intended, and he raised his head to apologize.
Charlie's smile was back for real now, surprised and pleased, like Colby had gotten something right, here, so Colby just grinned and kissed him again, letting one hand slide into Charlie's hair, and cradling Charlie's head just off the wall as Colby leaned over him. He planted his other hand flat on the wall, fingers flexing against the bricks like he had a chance in hell of being able to remember where they were even if they kept this careful inch of air between their bodies.
Charlie kissed back, wet and fast and dirty and not quite like anything Colby had imagined, if he were going to admit to imagining anything like this. Charlie's hands were on Colby's shoulders. They tightened briefly, surprisingly strong, tugging him further into the kiss--Colby tilted his head and complied, his tongue sliding against Charlie's, a helpless little sound escaping his throat, because he was making out with Charlie Eppes in an alley and he didn't know how exactly his life had come to this point but he was not about to complain.
Charlie slid one hand up to the back of Colby's neck, two deft fingers rubbing along the short-clipped edge of his hair. Colby shivered a little at the sensation; he felt Charlie's mouth twist into a smile at that, and Colby wound his fingers tighter into Charlie's hair in answer. He gave the curls a quick jerk that made Charlie gasp, and then Charlie upped the ante. His free hand slid down Colby's chest and darted around to grab his ass, yanking him hard against Charlie.
Colby's head jerked back, breaking the kiss to gasp at the sensation of full-body contact with Charlie. He felt sobered up and drunk all over again, skin humming and sweat breaking out along his spine, head spinning. Colby had been half hard since Charlie started talking and he was all the way there since Charlie had stopped. He could feel the insistent pressure of Charlie's dick against his hip, and it was as much a relief as a rush to know Charlie was as into this as he was, at least for now, at least for this moment.
Charlie ground up against him, his hand staying tight on Colby's ass, and Colby jerked back in answer. Colby squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep quiet. Between the alcohol buzz and the fact that this was Charlie, this felt better than it had any right to, standing up and fully clothed. Everything felt good. Charlie's chest against his, Charlie's hair wrapped around his fingers, Charlie's hand on the back of his neck--they were all making him as crazy as Charlie's cock rubbing against his hip, his own dick throbbing in his jeans, and the awkward friction between them.
Charlie's mouth touched Colby's throat, a tantalizing brush on his skin, and Colby made a startled, strangled little noise, thrusting hard against Charlie. Charlie's head jerked back, banging Colby's knuckles against the wall, and even the thrill of pain was just more sensation, driving the blood faster through his veins. Charlie grinned up at Colby, then lowered his head and kissed Colby's throat again, with a little suction this time--a faint scrape of teeth.
Colby gasped, "Fuck," and then, "Charlie, don't--where it shows--"
He felt Charlie's laugh against his skin, and tried dizzily to imagine lying to Don's face about where the hickey came from--but Charlie's mouth moved, giving him a sharp bite on the collarbone through his t-shirt. Colby gritted his teeth, struggling for control--he was not going to come in his pants while Charlie just breathed on the bitten spot through a layer of damp cotton, he was not--but the rough friction against his cock was already almost enough, his hips irresistibly grinding Charlie against the wall as Charlie bucked back.
And then Charlie let go of Colby's ass all of a sudden--Colby looked down at him, but Charlie was looking down himself, because Charlie had his hand on Colby's belt buckle. Colby was completely, absolutely in favor of that until he shifted his weight to give Charlie better access, and felt the cool weight of his gun under his untucked shirt.
Clipped to the back of his belt.
He had until Charlie got his belt undone to do something about that, because then his gun--and probably his pants--were going to hit the ground. Colby had a split-second sobering vision of the world's most excruciatingly embarrassing accidental gunshot wound, and then he was in motion.
He got his free hand on his belt and kept the other on Charlie, swinging them around fast and hard, pinning his gun securely between his back and the wall just as Charlie yanked his belt open.
Colby had his mouth open to say something about it--and maybe something about whether this should really be happening at all, in an alley, even an alley of Charlie's choosing--but Charlie looked up at him with a predatory smile and said, "Great minds."
Except clearly they didn't think alike, because Colby was taken completely by surprise when Charlie started sliding down to his knees, sliding his whole body down the length of Colby's and never breaking eye contact. Colby couldn't help staring back, mouth gone dry, heart hammering, right up until Charlie grabbed his hip and made him shift lower, spreading his legs. Colby let his gun drop a dangerous inch and caught it again, and then Charlie was easing his zipper down and Colby had to look away, out to the mouth of the alley--but just like Charlie had said, there was no one there, just cars whizzing by in flashes of light and bursts of sound.
There was a moment where Colby wanted to look down, because he could feel Charlie's breath on his dick through his boxers. Colby's hands closed into fists as he forced himself not to grab at Charlie's hair, not letting his hips jerk away from the wall. He dug his heels in and didn't look, and Charlie's hand was in his boxers, and he felt cool air touch the hot, tight skin of his cock for just a second before Charlie's tongue--
He didn't decide to look down, he just was, watching his cock slide between Charlie's lips, Charlie's hair falling forward over his forehead. Colby held his breath, digging too-short fingernails into his palms, trying to keep still. The gun was cold and hard against his back, digging into his hipbone, polar opposite to Charlie's hot wet mouth and soft flickering tongue. Charlie swallowed around him, and Colby couldn't hold back a sound, one clenched fist bursting open.
Charlie looked up with a smile in his eyes and made a pleased noise around Colby's cock, and that was it. Colby's eyes slammed shut and he couldn't have breathed if he'd wanted to, he was coming, the sensation ripping through him from his toes to his spine. Through it all he kept his knees locked and his ass to the wall, gun safe behind him as Charlie's mouth worked his cock, swallowing, God.
Colby let his head tip back against the brick, and raised one boneless, shaky hand to Charlie's head, petting him for all the words Colby couldn't string together. Charlie seemed to get it; when Colby looked down he was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, still smiling. Colby managed, "C'mere, Charlie," and Charlie bounced up to his feet. Colby tugged him in close, between Colby's still-spread legs, which put them pretty much dick-to-dick, but Charlie's was still hard, and still in his jeans.
Colby's hands were fumbling on Charlie's fly, but Charlie's breath smelled like come, and Colby had to kiss him. It was sort of thank you and then sort of oh Jesus, that's hot, because Charlie tasted like him, and Charlie was making little hungry sounds now, his tongue shoving into Colby's mouth. He had one hand on Colby's wrist as Colby finally got a hand into his baggy jeans, into his boxers, and wrapped around his cock.
Charlie's cock was hot, hard, silky under Colby's hand--for a second he thought of calluses, brick dust, thought he should be careful, but Charlie just jerked into his grip, moaning into his mouth. Colby tightened his hand, jacking Charlie in quick, awkward strokes--Charlie kept trying to move closer, which made the angle both variable and always bad--but it hardly mattered, because Charlie obviously liked it. His mouth pulled away from Colby's, and the little hungry sounds turned into halves of words, broken and incoherent and hotter than math, hotter than anything Charlie had ever said before. Colby could feel himself getting a little wound up again, with Charlie squirming against him, sliding fast in his hand, his head on Colby's shoulder as he gasped.
Charlie's hand tightened on his wrist, and Charlie said, "Colby--" and maybe it was a warning, but Colby just tightened one arm around Charlie and kept stroking him, and Charlie said, "Colby," again, his hips jerking, coming all over Colby's fingers and t-shirt, like Colby was the answer to some problem.
When Charlie went still, Colby let his other hand shift from Charlie's back, up the line of his spine and into his hair, winding his fingers into Charlie's curls. Charlie's head was resting on Colby's shoulder--Colby could feel Charlie's breath against his chest, skipping and hitching as Charlie tried to get it under control. Colby turned his head, clumsily dropping a kiss on Charlie's forehead, and after another minute he took his hand away from Charlie's dick, wiping his hand on his own t-shirt.
Charlie peeled himself away from Colby then, turning away to get himself zipped back up. Colby glanced toward the front of the alley as he did the same, buckling his belt up and reaching back to check that the clip was secure--God, if there was ever a time when he saw the wisdom of the shoulder holster, it was now--before he finally let himself step away from the wall. He moved cautiously toward Charlie, who was just standing there, facing away.
"Charlie?"
Charlie glanced over his shoulder. He was smiling again, but there was uncertainty in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"I guess, uh." Charlie looked away. "I guess this is the awkward part, right?"
It was definitely supposed to be the awkward part. Colby didn't even know if Charlie and Amita had actually broken up, or were fighting, or what the hell kind of minefield he'd just dropped himself into the middle of. He just knew he'd made Charlie happy, and Charlie had liked it, liked him. Colby felt too good--still too drunk, body too happy and humming with the feeling of Charlie in his arms--on his knees--to actually freak out right now. It was whatever it was, and it couldn't possibly be less than a lot of the sex Colby had had in the last few years. And just maybe, in Los Angeles, with Charlie, maybe it had the chance to be more--to--to multiply itself out somehow.
"Why don't we just, you know--" Colby waved a hand vaguely back toward the bar. "Why don't we just do the awkwardness in base two, get it over with faster?"
Charlie's smile turned bright and genuine. "I think that would actually make it last longer."
Colby grinned. "Base two hundred, then."
Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn't stop smiling. "We're going to need more digits."
"Yeah," Colby said, and he closed the distance between him and Charlie, slinging an arm around Charlie's shoulder, just like two guys heading out of the bar on a Friday night, tugging him down the alley toward the cabs and the bright blur of streetlights. "Yeah, we'll make up our own."