Don woke up and his hand was cold and empty, resting flat against the concrete. He sat up all at once, reaching for Charlie, and found Charlie's chilled fingers hanging in the air. Moving quietly and carefully, he knelt up and tucked Charlie's hand back under the covers. Charlie stayed limp, unresisting, so either he was asleep or he didn't mind.
Don got to his feet, navigating the room as easily in the dark as he would with a light on after ten days' practice. He found the work light on the corner board unerringly and clicked it on, holding up his watch to check the time.
His stomach clenched and behind him Charlie said quietly, "How long?"
Don turned. Charlie was still lying down, and he'd dragged his sleeping bag in around himself, curling up small on his cot.
"Twenty minutes," Don said, walking back.
He crouched by Charlie's cot, studying his brother's face. This might be his last chance, and he wanted to say it now, say everything. Under the circumstances Charlie might even believe he was telling the truth--but Charlie would almost certainly be questioned today--interrogated, tortured--and Don couldn't expose him to that kind of risk. The bruises around his eye were nearly gone, but the new scar still stood out, a livid reminder of what Williamson would do to Charlie just to teach Don a lesson.
The possibility remained that it was only a day off, that he'd be back here tonight, that both of them would reach the end of this day alive and in one piece.
"c..."
Charlie shook his head, and Don knew better than to try to tell him anything would be all right. Charlie would know better than he did what the odds were of that.
"I know you have to go," Charlie said quietly. "Just--please--say goodbye to me properly."
Don opened his mouth and shut it, staring down at Charlie. There was no smirk now, none of that baby brother determination to get his way. He wasn't reaching for Don, wouldn't pull him in, wouldn't take anything. Don could turn away, walk out, leave him like this and maybe never see him alive again, but have the satisfaction of knowing he hadn't given in. Charlie was asking him now, just asking. Just begging.
Don tipped forward onto his knees, and he saw Charlie's slight recoil at the sudden motion.
"Shh," he whispered, "I'm just gonna--" Say goodbye, but he couldn't actually say it, not out loud.
He kissed Charlie's forehead first, and then his cheek, because that was normal. He knew he could do that. His hand curled around Charlie's shoulder, through the sleeping bag, and when he hesitated, Charlie turned his head and Don met the motion, so the kiss was mutual.
Don shuddered at the touch of Charlie's mouth under his, his hand tightening reflexively, and he felt Charlie shiver right back. Charlie's lips parted under his and he didn't know why he'd thought he couldn't do this, because he could, he was. Here was action, here was motion, here was the exact opposite of sitting still and keeping his hands to himself. Don's mouth dragged over Charlie's, wet and hot and goodbye and I'll come back to you and don't die don't die please don't die.
Charlie broke away to gasp in a breath that sounded like a sob, and Don had to touch him, sliding his hand under the sleeping bag to Charlie's chest, setting his palm over the hammering of Charlie's heart under the prominent bones, with his fingertips against the naked softness of Charlie's throat. Charlie's hand caught his shoulder, holding him close. Don kissed him again, fiercely, desperately, my brother, mine, and Charlie's tongue slid across his, wet and smooth and strong. They were so close, so connected. They were breathing each other's breath in damp, broken gasps. Don would have the mark of Charlie's fingers on his skin.
Don tried to pull away--time was ticking--but he couldn't make the move decisively. They broke apart and reconnected in slight movements and quick brushes of mouth on mouth, glancing contacts of tongue and lips and spit and air. The smell and the taste of Charlie overwhelmed him, Charlie's sweat under his fingers, the prickle of Charlie's stubble against his lips.
They both froze when they heard the bar on the door lift. Don pulled back, and he was kneeling over his baby brother, staring down at Charlie's flushed cheeks, swollen lips, wide eager eyes and the bright slash of a fresh scar. His own breath was coming short, his lips tingling. Don couldn't look away. When the door started to open, he swiped his sleeve across his face, pushed up to his feet and turned away. He didn't dare look back.
Williamson took his gun and handed him an envelope of cash, smiling smoothly all the while. Don didn't bother to count it. Maybe they'd kill him and take it back; maybe they wouldn't. The only thing he could think of buying right then was another gun to fill the empty space under his arm, and he had a feeling he wouldn't get away with that.
Jimmy gave Don exactly one weird sideways look in the course of the twenty-minute drive, and after that Don stared out the window. He didn't think Jimmy had seen anything incriminating this morning, but he definitely didn't want to talk.
"Town" turned out to be a major intersection near the interstate, with a scattering of chain stores and motels. Jimmy parked at the KMart and turned off the car, and Don got out when he did.
"Go where you want," Jimmy said. "Sam'll pick you up tonight."
"Where at?" Don asked, looking around.
Jimmy gave him a sudden, toothy smile. "Don't worry, he'll find you."
c pressed his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. He'd thought, sometime in the darkness with Don's hand warm on his, that he might get through this day--and whatever followed--by trying to forget Don, forget how things had been when he was here. It would make it easier; he'd gotten along well enough without Don. As long as he had nothing better to compare to, his conditions had not been intolerable.
He hadn't calculated for the kissing, though. He didn't think he could bear to forget that, so he would have to hold on to it. It would have to be enough to get him through everything else.
c lay curled on his cot and waited for whatever would come next.
Don went into the store, because it was somewhere to get out of the cold and he might as well get some use from the money. He wandered the aisles, picking things up almost randomly, until he couldn't stand to kill any more time under the fluorescent lights. He chatted with his cashier, and she gave him directions. Armed with those and his shopping bag, he set out for the Super 8 half a mile away.
Halfway there, by the highway, there was a gas station with a pay phone in the corner of its parking lot. Don stopped walking and stood there staring, frozen in the cold wind.
He could call 911 right now. He could call his dad, or Terry, or the LA Field Office.
It was like a mirage in one of those Bugs Bunny cartoons with a desert island with cartoon characters turning into steaks and ice cream cones before each other's eyes. He couldn't quite believe the phone was real.
Motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and Don looked to see Sam standing twenty yards away on the other side of the parking lot, watching him. His face was expressionless, but he shifted his weight and shrugged a little, and Don could see the gun he was carrying. It was an obvious and deliberate warning. Don didn't know if Sam would shoot him right here, at a gas station in broad daylight, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be as good as dead before he got to the phone, to say nothing of Charlie.
Don turned away and kept walking. He didn't spot Sam again, but he could feel eyes on his back every step of the way.
c got bored after a while. He stood up, trailing his sleeping bag from his shoulders, and went to blackboard four. He warmed up as he worked, hardly noticing when he dropped the sleeping bag, though he had to kick it aside half a dozen times before it came to rest underneath the tables. He didn't think about Don, or about not thinking about Don. Absence had a character in mathematics--zero--but outside the blackboards absence was just absence. Out of sight.
He worked steadily until absence became presence, a stray glance discovering Williamson standing in the doorway, watching him. c froze, and Williamson smiled.
Don got a room at the motel just to have walls between him and Sam, but he'd done enough stakeouts to know the privacy was a pretty thin illusion. He couldn't stand the silence, but he also couldn't stand to lie there and watch television while God-knew-what was happening to Charlie. He turned on one of the soaps and lowered the volume until it was just voices in the distance, like working in the open-plan office in LA. He was so homesick for a second he was literally sick with it, but he just gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. Homesickness was the least of his worries.
They wouldn't kill Charlie, he didn't think--not really. Charlie was in the middle of planning a job for them, and that had to be when he was safest. If they killed anyone it would be Don; he was expendable. Or worse, they'd just leave him here, pull up stakes and move Charlie somewhere else. Don would never be able to find them again. He didn't even have any proof he could present to anyone that Charlie was alive, or that Williamson and the others were connected to the string of apparently-unrelated crimes.
But Williamson had called it a day off, and Sam was there, tailing him. He was being watched, and if they were bothering to watch they still had a decision to make; his cover wasn't blown just yet. Don stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant shrieking of the soaps, waiting for footsteps outside his door.
He shivered, sitting in the bathtub with his hands cuffed behind him. Water from the tap was running over his feet--just cool enough to leach body heat--and Williamson was perched on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. His sweatpants were soaked, and he couldn't pull his hands up high enough to keep them out of the cold water. The bones were already starting to ache, twinging where the breaks had healed, and his elbow was dully protesting the twist. They hadn't even gotten started yet. He sat and watched the water level rise: over his feet, up to his ankles and over his hips, creeping up his shins.
Williamson's hand tightened all at once, hauling him onto his back with a splash, pinning his hands and arms painfully beneath him. He lifted his head clear of the water automatically, and Williamson caught him by the hair.
"I'm going to want you to tell me all about Mac," Williamson said, pushing his head down, "in just a minute."
He didn't sleep, but there was only so long you could stay alert, and the shitty motel bed was the most comfortable place Don had rested his head in weeks. He sunk far enough into a doze to think he was in his own bed, and knew just enough to know he couldn't move--couldn't think--or the cozy illusion would shatter. He had to think of something else, something that wasn't here or there. His hand rested heavy on his thigh and his mind drifted easily to kissing.
Kissing, kissing Charlie... but it was all right, just kissing, just his mouth on Charlie's, moving slow, and Charlie's mouth so soft and wet under his--and Don was abruptly wide awake, jerking his hand away from himself too late.
"He--he knows things about math," c gasped. He'd tried everything else he could think of--everything but that, trying to hide it--but Williamson didn't care about Don's gun, or his comic books, or his ibuprofen. "P versus NP, I think he--"
Williamson rolled his eyes, visibly bored. He pushed c's head toward the water and he couldn't go under the water again, he really just couldn't, he had to--
"He kissed me," c said, his volume control breaking and the words were nearly a shout, and yes, now Williamson looked interested, though he shouldn't. A kiss shouldn't matter like math or guns or drugs did, but this was no time to think about what should be. If c wanted to keep breathing he had to keep talking, and he wanted very badly to keep breathing even as every breath burned his nose and throat and lungs.
"I sort of--I asked him to and I thought he wouldn't but he did and I--I liked it and I thought he liked it--"
Williamson's gaze grew terribly focused, and c choked on the words, feeling exposed as he never had when he was naked before this man: he'd been hungry, hurt, exhausted, soaked in his own piss, in his own blood, but he'd never been vulnerable like this. He waited for his breath to be cut off again, for the water to cover him, but Williamson's hand jerked him slightly upward, and he kept breathing. The gratitude welled up with the tears and somewhere down inside he thought he really did know Stockholm Syndrome from the real thing.
Then Williamson said, "Tell me more about that."
c closed his eyes and opened his mouth. He could feel every muscle cringing from the sound of his own voice, pouring out the only secrets he'd thought to keep, to get through everything else. Making the best a part of the worst.
"He kissed--he kissed my forehead first," c whispered. "And then my--my cheek, very gently."
Don's heart raced as he stared at the ceiling, and if there had been any mercy in the world, Sam would have stepped inside right then and put a bullet in him. But there was no mercy, and no denying it. He was hard. He'd kissed his brother that morning and liked it, been turned on then and was turned on now, while Charlie was maybe suffering, maybe dying.
But there wasn't a damn thing he could do to help Charlie from here, and Don didn't dare go back to him not knowing what the hell was going on in his own head. If he wasn't better prepared for it than he had been this morning Charlie would catch him off-guard again, and he might want more than kissing next time.
The thought should have been awful, should have been sickening and terrifying--infuriating--and instead all he felt was a curl of heat. His pulse kicked up, and Don smiled sourly. That was an answer, wasn't it? But not enough. He had to know.
Don closed his eyes, letting the thought slide forward, letting his hand drift down. What would happen, if they put him back in with Charlie now, if Charlie smiled and said I still want to have sex with you, if he said hit me or kiss me, right now, let's go.
Another kiss, and this time Charlie pushing, Charlie taking--not so scared, but maybe just as desperate, with his hands on Don's shirt and his mouth hot and hungry. Don's hips jerked up at the thought of that contact, pressing into his own palm through his jeans. His breathing turned harsh and quick as he thought of his hands sliding down Charlie's body. Tugging that sweater off him to reveal Charlie's skin, pale and fine under his fingers. His hand on Charlie's jeans, touching Charlie like he was touching himself--flicking the button open, sliding the zipper down--Don's hips jerked at the thought, heart racing with something that should have been anything but excitement, his dick throbbing harder with every beat of his pulse.
Don bit down hard on his lip, digging his fingernails into his palms, and rolled onto his side, letting his momentum carry him up and onto his feet. He jammed his fingers under his arms, and they dug into his ribs where his gun wasn't. He couldn't think about it. Charlie needed him, and he'd be no good to Charlie like this.
c's cheekbone pressed painfully against the edge of the tub, and he shut his eyes tight as he breathed. The water lapped at his throat, and it was warmer than it had been or he was colder. They were approaching thermal equilibrium, he and the water. Williamson's hand clenched in his hair, and his voice seemed to come from further away than arm's length.
"Come on, now, you've had your rest. Tell me."
c's toes curled against the drain, but he couldn't get enough pain from his waterlogged skin to force himself to alertness. He pressed his cheek down instead, and jerked his hands backward until pain shot through his shoulders, clearing some of the fog from his brain.
"Tell what?" he whispered. He remembered, but he might get away with asking, and he wanted to delay. Williamson was under his skin now, poking at soft, raw places that squished and bled at a touch.
There was a splash, and he flinched--Williamson's hand in his hair kept him steady, so that he yanked out a few strands, bright sharp pains in his scalp. He couldn't avoid the handful of water Williamson poured over his face, just blinked it frantically out of his eyes, blew out through his nose and choked, though none had even made it into his mouth.
Williamson waited until he'd managed to stop coughing and then said, "Come on. Tell me what I asked you to tell me."
"What I want," c whispered, and his face was wet. It didn't matter. Williamson had seen him cry before, and that was the least of this. Williamson's hand tightened warningly when he hesitated, and c rushed the words out.
"Touch him, I want to touch and--and look at him, the lights on and--no clothes and touch him--"
"Where?" Williamson interrupted, because he wouldn't let c forget this was an interrogation, not for a second.
"His dick," c whispered, because it was the answer Williamson would expect. "His ass, his mouth, his throat, the--"
Still he stumbled on the words, his mouth working in silence, and there was no warning this time, he was under, fighting to get his mouth and his nose shut against the cool silky pressure of water and next time, next time he would just breathe it in and die--next time--and it was almost a disappointment when Williamson dragged him up and c breathed air again, because it wasn't over.
"Where?" Williamson repeated.
c sobbed, made an automatic motion to wipe the warm snot from his face and wrenched his shoulder and wrist. The jolt of pain snapped something deeper than bone or muscle; he relaxed against Williamson's hand, clenched in the front of his shirt.
"His face," c whispered, and it didn't even mean anything, or what it meant was so far away he'd never reach it. It was just words now. "His face--beside his eyes, when he smiles--"
Don kept pacing until he found himself facing the wall in the bathroom, and sat down on the edge of the tub, head in hands. So he wanted to fuck Charlie almost as much as Charlie wanted to fuck him: fantastic. Charlie was sick, Charlie's mistake was innocent, but Don was the other kind of sick, so fucked up he was turned on by his own baby brother, damaged and scared and dependent on him for everything, and--
He shuddered, and he did feel sick now, when he thought about it coldly, when he ignored how Charlie didn't look sick, didn't feel sick--
Don's fingers dug in against his temples, like he could claw out his eyes, claw out his own brain, and make this thing go away. He forced his hands open, stood up and went to the sink, splashing water on his face, blinking it from his eyes. He rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. He looked his reflection steadily in the eye.
"Wanting it doesn't make a difference," he said quietly, forcing the words out past the taste of bile, the shaking of his stomach, the way his throat tried to close rather than let this out into the air. "Wanting Charlie doesn't change anything. It's wrong."
It was what Charlie wanted--this morning he'd even thought it was what Charlie needed--but Don couldn't do it again. He couldn't let himself get off on this, on Charlie like this. Don was the older brother here, the responsible one, the one who knew better. It was time he acted like it.
His chest ached where Williamson had made him breathe again, and the burning strain in his shoulders was the only place he felt warm. His face was mashed into the bathroom rug and every breath tasted like blood, but it wasn't over, no matter how he'd tried.
"Tell me," Williamson said. "Once more, and then you're done."
He tried to turn his face away--it had to be a lie, except Williamson's behavior in certain respects was entirely predictable, and Williamson never told him that lie. Williamson's hand turned gentle, stroking his cheek. c shuddered, but he was shivering so hard he didn't think Williamson could tell.
"Just tell me," Williamson repeated. "What do you think?"
I think I'd rather die than tell you, he thought, but you won't let me.
"He loves me," c whispered, because there was no escaping it.
"And you?" Williamson murmured, pushing c over, turning his face toward the light.
c opened his mouth, staring up at Williamson, but he didn't say it. Don had told him not to say it again, and he wouldn't--couldn't. The words stopped in his throat and stuck there, choking him.
After a few seconds Williamson smiled. He'd heard it anyway.
Williamson got up, delivering a casual kick to c's midsection as he turned away. c curled around his belly, gasping for breath again, and watched through nearly-closed eyes as Williamson stepped out the bathroom door.
"Jimmy," he called, not raising his voice particularly, "Tell Sam code three on Mac, and then put Know-Nothing away."
c closed his eyes. Code three could be anything, but there was no data to suggest that Williamson would ever knowingly give him anything he loved.
Don stood just behind the door of his motel room for a long time with the postcard in his hands. Someone had left it behind, tucked into the Gideon Bible, which had seemed like too good a chance to pass up. He had addressed it but otherwise left it blank. There was a blue mailbox out near the front office.
He would be in full view of the parking lot; Sam would see him drop the postcard. If sending a postcard was the same as making a phone call, he could get himself killed, and lose Charlie his one shot at getting out alive. If he didn't send it things would stay exactly the same: no backup, no hope of a second chance for Charlie if Don failed.
He turned back for a second, taking a last look around the room, but he'd brought little enough in with him: he was wearing his coat, and his shopping bag was at his feet. He picked it up, took the chain off the door, and stepped outside.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled with the consciousness of being watched, and he walked in steady strides, twiddling the postcard between his fingers, giving Sam a look at the picture of the Chicago skyline, the conspicuous blankness of the message box. Nothing to see. Nothing to kill anyone for.
He got to the mailbox and opened it with the hand holding his shopping bag, tossed the card in quickly before the shot could ring out--but no shot rang out. He stood there for a moment, counting the beats, the footsteps he couldn't quite hear, and then Sam's hand closed on his arm. "Time to go, Mac."
He stood very still as the door shut behind him. His boards were there before him, and he thought dully that he should work--but why? What would Williamson do if he didn't? Kill him? Cover his face with water again? Pull him up again? Williamson knew about Don, and Don wasn't here, and he would never again look up from his work to see Don reading a comic book. So why work? How could he?
His brain had gone slow--waterlogged and cold, shaking--but it occurred to him that he was alone. Williamson wasn't here. If he stopped breathing now, no one could make him start again.
He'd need water.
He spent a moment thinking of how to wring out his shirt to get enough when he realized that the bathroom was right there. He turned and walked past Don's bedroll tied up neatly and ready to be put away, past his own cot as neat and straight and flat as if no one had ever lain on it. Been kissed on it. He shuddered at the thought, the memory of Williamson's avid eyes superimposed over Don's kind, warm ones.
He knelt down at the toilet (where he had sat while Don tended him, where Don had fed him sugar and painkillers--but Williamson knew that now too, had taken it from him while pressing his face down into water) and there was water now, all his own. He pushed the seat up and lowered his face toward the surface of the water. His hair slithered wetly over his head as he moved.
Two quick drops struck the surface of the water just as the tip of his nose touched it, and the sound of the small splashes and feeling of cool water on his skin forced him back, breathing the dry air in huge gasps. He scrambled sideways, pressing himself against the wall, wedging himself into the tight space.
He couldn't do it. Williamson had won.
Somebody had done the laundry in Don's absence: Charlie's clothes and his own were stacked neatly on the dryer. Williamson looked through Don's shopping bag as Don reholstered the Sig. Don watched his face, but Williamson just smiled, digging through Don's few purchases.
Without looking up, he said, "That a good friend of yours, in Reno?"
Don gritted his teeth, sparing a second to be desperately glad he hadn't sent that postcard to his father, and said, "Just somebody whose address I remembered."
It didn't come out quite as easily as he'd hoped it would, but he'd given this up on purpose by way of making a deal. He wouldn't argue against the fiction that he was an employee--that he would do a job, be paid, and go on his way--if Williamson would let him have that one little semblance of freedom. They could know where he sent the postcard, and it would be blank, but he would send it. He wished them all the luck in the world catching Coop checking that PO box.
"Hope he knows you're too busy to entertain visitors," Williamson said idly, running his fingers over the plastic packaging of the blanket Don had bought.
He could refuse to let Don keep it, refuse to let Charlie have it. But he'd called it a day off, like he wanted to play this game, so Don would play along.
"Well, he does what he likes," Don said.
Coop wouldn't come after him, not for a blank postcard. If the card was blank, the message was the postmark, nothing more. There were other ways to signal a call for help, and Don hadn't used any of them. Not yet.
Williamson looked up at him then, with a smile that was nearly a leer. "So do I."
He'd had Charlie all day. Don had seen a lot in ten years, but he didn't pretend he could imagine everything Williamson could have done to Charlie. He wouldn't have killed him, or rendered him unable to work, but Don knew that would only make a guy like Williamson get creative. Don didn't look toward the door, but held Williamson's gaze, waiting him out. Williamson handed his shopping bag back to him and Don tucked it under his arm, not showing more than he had to.
Williamson kept smiling that nasty, knowing smile--Charlie would have told him, of course, Charlie would have told him anything he asked, anything he had to--and pulled something out of his back pocket. The little plastic bag crinkled, and when Williamson shook it out Don could see it was from KMart, like his own. Whatever it was, Jimmy must have picked it up that morning. Williamson held it out and Don took it automatically.
As he looked inside Williamson said, "Fuck him if you want. Probably the only perk you'll get in this job, and I guess he's pretty enough from behind."
A little plastic bottle. A little box. Don crumpled up the bag and shoved it into his own back pocket, and though he knew he had to be careful he scowled at Williamson.
"That an order?"
Williamson grinned. "You gonna tell me to fuck off again? Suit yourself, Mac."
Don bared his teeth and told himself that he was not, of all possible reasons, angry because Williamson was siding with Charlie. He stepped past Williamson--not quite shoving him, just a rough brush of shoulder--to grab the clothes off the dryer. "We done?"
"Sure," Williamson said, and Don turned away, heading for the door. "That's what I like about you, Mac. Your work ethic."
Don gritted his teeth and shuffled the laundry to his left arm so he could unbar the door. Williamson was on his heels and Don didn't hesitate, yanking the door open and stepping quickly inside.
He half-expected a repeat of that first day, Charlie standing at the board in his ratty old sweater, with his left hand braced against the board and right hand flying, but Charlie was nowhere to be seen. Don set everything down just inside the door as Williamson slammed it shut, dropping Williamson's little bag inside his own shopping bag. He took in the room at a glance--his bedroll had been tied up, and Charlie's sleeping bag was laid out neatly on his cot. Somebody had cleaned up while they were doing the laundry. Don was already striding to the bathroom, the one place Charlie would have any sense of being able to hide.
He stopped short in the doorway. Charlie was wedged into the space between the toilet and the exterior wall, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head leaning against the cinder blocks. His hair was wet, and his lips were blue-tinged, and Charlie wasn't moving. Wasn't visibly breathing. It flashed through Don's mind all at once that after everything, Williamson might just have killed Charlie by accident.
"c," Don said.
Charlie's eyes flashed open, wide and dark in his bloodless face, the newly-healed gash beside his eye the only hint of color. He hauled in a deep, gasping breath as he stared up at Don, but it wasn't relief on his face. It wasn't fear, either. Don was pretty sure he knew that look, but he didn't want to think about it--not on Charlie's face.
Don dropped to his knees, reaching for Charlie. Charlie shut his eyes again, but he didn't pull away, and that was something. Don ran his hands over Charlie's head and neck, over his shoulders and down his back, everywhere he could reach with Charlie curled up the way he was. He hadn't seen blood anywhere, but Charlie was soaking wet, almost cold to the touch. Don couldn't feel him shivering.
"You hurt, c? You bleeding anywhere?"
Charlie shook his head, but still didn't open his mouth. Don had to look away from his face, watching his own hands run uselessly over the wet sweatpants covering Charlie's knees and shins.
"You're freezing," he said. "Come on, we gotta warm you up. Come on."
Charlie didn't move, but he didn't resist being pulled to his feet, and followed Don out to the cot when Don led him by the hand.
The sleeping bag was zipped shut. Don muttered, "Fucking hell."
He leaned down to grab it, letting go of Charlie so he could get it open. It had been zipped up. Charlie couldn't stand a zipped sleeping bag and probably hadn't been in any state to work the zipper for himself.
Don glanced over at Charlie and dropped the sleeping bag on the cot. "c, you gotta get those clothes off, okay? They're just making you colder now, we can't warm you up unless you take them off."
Charlie nodded slightly, but he didn't move.
Don shut his eyes for just a second. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and said, "I'll help you, okay? Put your hands up for me."
Charlie raised his hands shoulder-high, so that Don could see the fresh dark rings of handcuff-bruises circling both his wrists. Don winced as he grabbed the hem of Charlie's shirt, tugging it up and off quickly, but Charlie didn't flinch. The sodden shirt hit the concrete with a wet slap, and Don spared only a glance at the new bruises on Charlie's chest and stomach before he looked away, tugging down Charlie's sweatpants and boxers in one motion. He grabbed the sleeping bag with his left hand as he dropped Charlie's pants with his right, wrapping it quickly around Charlie. It was more gratifying than it should have been to see Charlie raise a hand to hold it shut around himself.
"Okay, good, good," Don murmured, "here, just sit down and let me take your socks."
Charlie slid obediently to the floor next to the head of the cot, his back against the wall. Don tugged his socks off and then tucked the bottom of the sleeping bag over his bare feet, giving them a quick rub before he moved away. Don laid Charlie's wet clothes out flat on the floor to dry and turned the work light to shine on them. He took off his coat and shrugged out of his holster, so recently returned to him--for all the good his damn gun would do him when they could take him away from Charlie any time they liked. Williamson had made that point clearly enough.
Don left the holstered gun on top of his bag, and shucked out of his shirt before he took off his boots and socks. The hairs stood up on his arms and chest and the back of his neck. His toes curled against the chill of the concrete floor. They'd left Charlie down here soaking wet in the cold, too far out of his mind to look after himself. Don ran a thumb over his belt buckle, considering. Skin to skin was best for heat conduction. He glanced at Charlie, sitting motionless six feet away, wrapped in his sleeping bag with his head on his knees. Harmless. Defenseless. Don left his belt fastened.
He tipped the cot up on end and shut off the overhead lights. He didn't need to see very well to fish the blanket he'd bought out of his shopping bag. He untied and unzipped his own sleeping bag and grabbed the pillow, carrying it all over to Charlie.
Don knelt down in front of Charlie. He hadn't moved a muscle. He was resting his head on his knees, his face down, but at least he'd started to shiver. Don set his hand on the back of Charlie's neck and squeezed gently.
Charlie looked up and his lips twisted, a thin attempt at a smile. Don returned it with interest, reaching for the red fleece blanket.
"Here," he said softly, holding a corner to Charlie's cheek, "I brought you something."
Charlie's smile widened and then vanished as he turned his face away, hiding his eyes against the blanket and Don's hand.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Don whispered, "I'm here, I'm back, it's all right."
Charlie didn't respond to that at all, and Don squeezed the back of his neck again.
"Come on, c, lie down for me, okay? We gotta warm you up, and it's easier with two than one."
Charlie nodded against his hand and moved, letting go of the sleeping bag so it could be spread out under him. He tugged the fleece up to cover himself. Charlie went where Don moved him with carefully-placed hands on his bare skin, and after a couple of minutes they were both lying down, facing the wall, under one sleeping bag and on top of another. Don scooted the pillow under both their heads and then squirmed closer, reaching out to tuck Charlie against himself, shoulders to feet.
Charlie lay still in his arms, shaking continuously, and Don shut his eyes and held on, running a hand up and down Charlie's arm, squeezing his hand where he clutched an edge of the blanket. Charlie had nearly stopped shivering. Don closed his eyes, starting to feel warm himself, to let himself think that Charlie was safe, and then Charlie whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Hey," Don said against his hair, "hey, n--"
"No," Charlie said, "you don't know, Don, I told him--"
Don shut his eyes, pressing his face down against Charlie's bare shoulder. Charlie smelled clean, and the smell of his skin had never been something Don had recognized before this week.
"It's not your fault," Don said, just loudly enough to be heard. "c, he made you--"
"I told him I wanted you," Charlie said in a rush. "I told him you kissed me, I told him you--you care about me."
Don squeezed Charlie closer, crossing his arms over Charlie's chest, telling himself that if Williamson knew the truth, he'd never have let Don come back. He'd never have said what he said.
"He already knew," Don murmured in Charlie's ear. "Or he wouldn't have asked."
Charlie shook his head. "I told him everything, Don. What we did, what it was like, how--how I felt, what I wanted. See--"
He bowed his head, pulling away just far enough to open a small cold gap between their bodies. His voice was a tiny, toneless whisper when he spoke again.
"Secret things."
And Don had asked him whether he was bleeding, like that was the worst Williamson could do to him.
"It's all right," Don whispered, and it was a lie, the kind of lie you'd tell a little kid. Don could feel Charlie not falling for it. He pushed out of Don's grip and struggled over onto his other side, facing Don with his back to the wall.
Charlie met Don's eyes squarely, and Don looked back in the half-light, watching his brother's face. He wanted to tell Charlie something, give him something, but he couldn't think of anything both true and safe, and he couldn't lie, not to Charlie, not right now.
"c," he said softly, and Charlie shook his head slightly and leaned in for a kiss.
Don pulled away, setting his hand against Charlie's chest--bare skin, wiry hair curling against his palm. Charlie was starting to feel warm, but not yet hot. It had to be Don's own sweat, slicking his palm. It had to be panic kicking his pulse up.
"c," he repeated helplessly, but Don couldn't quite make himself say no.
Charlie's hair was wet, and he looked so tired, so drawn and aged and abused. Charlie caught Don's arm and tightened his grip as he leaned in again, though he stopped short of another kiss.
"Please," Charlie whispered. "I just want something that doesn't hurt."
Don closed his eyes and wondered if there had ever been any chance this wouldn't happen. He couldn't say no to Charlie, not like this, not when he'd looked into Charlie's eyes and seen him despairing. Williamson had broken Charlie today, taking things away from him that he hadn't known he could lose, and if Don didn't give him something to hang onto now, it wasn't going to matter if they got out. There wouldn't be any of his brother left to save.
Even as Don decided, Charlie's grip on his arm went slack. He felt Charlie shift backward, going away from him already, like Don had missed the moment just by stopping to think. Don tugged Charlie close, opening his eyes to meet Charlie's as they went wide. He gave Charlie a shaky smile--now or never, do this or watch him die--and then kissed him, and Charlie's hand on Don's arm tightened so hard it hurt as their mouths touched.
Charlie exhaled against his lips, a long ragged sigh, and Don shuddered, sliding his arms around Charlie and deepening the kiss slowly. He could do this, no matter how well he knew it was wrong. He couldn't say whether it was the least evil choice open to him--that would be up to Charlie to judge, someday--but it was all the could think to do now, and the man in the field had to go with his own best judgment.
When Charlie took a breath it was nearly a sob, and Don pulled Charlie tight against himself and kissed him again, for the reassurance of touch, for the moment to figure out what the hell he was doing.
But Charlie wasn't hesitating: he moved closer and shoved the blanket out of the way, baring himself against Don. His hand skidded down Don's side to his hip, Charlie's thumb brushing the skin just above his jeans as his fingers curled against the denim. Don caught his breath as blood rushed to his dick, pulling his mouth from Charlie's. He reached down to catch Charlie's wrist and Charlie's fingers caught at his skin, trying to hold on. Don leaned in to kiss him again, but he didn't release Charlie's hand. This wasn't about him, this couldn't be about what he wanted. This was about Charlie. Charlie needed something that didn't hurt.
"Shh," he breathed against Charlie's mouth, though Charlie hadn't made a sound, hadn't protested at all except the tension in the muscles of his wrist in Don's grip. "Let me."
Charlie nodded jerkily and relaxed, his eyes wide and dark in the dimness. Don shifted, getting one knee under himself and pushing up, pulling Charlie down onto his back and straddling his hips. Don hesitated there for a second, still holding Charlie's wrist, looking down at Charlie lying under him looking up, naked and eager and horrifically tempting. It would be so easy to let go, to forget that he had a purpose here, to just do what he wanted, what they both wanted--but he had to focus.
Don settled lower, releasing Charlie's wrist to run his fingers through Charlie's hair, watching his eyes--but Charlie kept looking up at Don, trusting him, waiting. Don took a breath and wiped the back of one hand across his mouth, the other still tangled up in Charlie's curls.
"c. Buddy."
Charlie's nickname, and he'd been careful not to say it, not to betray himself like that. Until now, when he was about to betray them both.
"I need you to remember something, okay? I need you to remember what I'm going to say."
Charlie nodded, eyebrows drawing in slightly--he didn't understand, but that was all right. Someday he would. Don leaned back, letting what light there was fall on Charlie's face, watching Charlie's eyes to see that he was paying attention.
"If I hurt you," Don said carefully, "then I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."
Charlie frowned, opening his mouth to ask. A glimmer of fear showed in his eyes, and in the sudden slight tension of his body under Don's--it hadn't crossed his mind that Don would hurt him, maybe. He didn't know what Don meant by it. Don leaned down and kissed Charlie, silenced him, silenced them both. Maybe it wasn't fair to ask that future Charlie's forgiveness like this, but he didn't think he could do it without the chance that Charlie might understand. And it felt like forgiveness already, the way Charlie's mouth opened under his, the way Charlie's breath caught on a moan when Don's fingers slid over his collarbone and down onto his chest.
Don scrubbed his fingertips through the hair on Charlie's chest, even though he knew it was kind of an annoying sensation, ticklish and hair-pulling. But it was Charlie under his hands, and Don needed to learn him, the way he squirmed as Don touched him, the heat of his skin, the quick uneven rise and fall of his breathing. Don let his mouth slide away from Charlie's, down the sandpaper rasp of his cheek to his throat. He could hear Charlie's breathing, soft and quick, as he kissed down Charlie's skin and his thumb brushed over Charlie's nipple.
Charlie jerked under him, making a sound more startled than turned on, and Don smiled and did it again, sitting back to look down at Charlie as he did. Charlie's eyelashes fluttered, the corners of his mouth curling up between gasps for breath. Don leaned down to kiss him again, just a brief touch, and then sat back, watching his own hands slide down Charlie's chest. There was round dark bruise under the hair, precisely centered on his sternum. Don touched it lightly, and heard Charlie's breathing stutter, and then laid his hand over it. The bruise was about the size and shape of his palm, just where you'd do chest compressions, and Charlie had been soaking wet. Immersed.
Don lowered his head and kissed Charlie there, careful not to put pressure on the bruise, and shifted down Charlie's body to kiss the bruise on his belly, too. They were both fresh, but as Don lifted his head he saw an older mark, a brown-green patch on his hip. Don looked up and met Charlie's eyes watching him intently, and moved lower again, leaning down to kiss the spot on Charlie's hip where he'd kicked him. Don set his other hand on Charlie's opposite hip. He could feel heat against his wrist, against his cheek. Charlie's dick, standing up hard.
Don let his mouth trail against the soft smooth skin of Charlie's hip, looking at it sideways, blood-dark and thick. He could smell it, smell sex and sweat and Charlie. This was the furthest thing from everything he'd ever wanted in his life--everyone he'd ever wanted--but his own dick was hard in his jeans and he wanted to touch, wanted to taste, wanted to--
Don flicked a glance up at Charlie. His eyes were barely open, but Don could see the gleam of Charlie's eyes behind the darkness of his eyelashes. Charlie was watching him, waiting to see what he would do. Don shut his eyes and dragged his mouth up higher along Charlie's side, trailing lightly against his skin, and let his left hand slide in from Charlie's hip. He slid his palm low across Charlie's belly, down to the dark curling hair. Charlie groaned and jerked under him, the head his dick brushing Don's wrist, an impression of heat and then gone. Don watched Charlie's face, the rising darkness of a flush on his cheeks in the half-light, the skin of his throat shining with sweat. Don reached lower and closed his hand.
Charlie's eyes went wide as he thrust up into Don's sweaty and tentative grip, and when Don tightened his hand Charlie's mouth fell open. Don moved up to kiss him, bracing over Charlie on his right arm and stroking him clumsily, left-handed and backward, but Charlie didn't seem to mind. Charlie's mouth moved erratically under his, gasping, mouthing words Don couldn't hear, but Don couldn't tear himself away from the drag of Charlie's lips against his, the rush of his breath and the odd quick flick of his tongue. Charlie's hips jerked irregularly under his hand, like Charlie was trying to hold still and couldn't manage it. Charlie's hand caught at Don's hip again, fingers hooking into the pocket of his jeans and holding on. Don could feel the pressure of Charlie's knuckles against the crease of his hip, and couldn't spare a hand to push him away.
Charlie's dick was hot in his hand, silk-smooth against Don's callused fingers, and the sensation was such a weird combination of familiar and strange that Don had to look. There wasn't much to see in the shadow between their bodies, just rhythmic motion, accompanied by the sliding sound of skin on skin and Charlie gasping, "Don, Don."
Charlie's voice shook him like nothing else ever had, and the steady motion of Don's hand stuttered--but he couldn't, God, he really couldn't stop now. He buried his face against Charlie's throat, kissing him roughly, moving his hand faster until his name was lost in moans and Charlie arched under him. The sweat ran off Charlie's skin as fast as tears, wetting Don's lips. He licked a spot clean at the base of Charlie's throat, and sucked at Charlie's pale, wet skin hard enough to leave a mark. Charlie's breath choked off as he fucked Don's fist, and Don kept stroking him and kissing him as he came and came, not letting go until Charlie went still beneath him, catching his breath.
Don pushed away from Charlie's body, kneeling up over him to catch his own breath. He looked down at himself to keep from looking at Charlie, the embarrassingly obvious bulge in his jeans, his sticky-wet left hand curled awkwardly in midair. If he took long enough washing up, maybe Charlie would be asleep--
Don's whole body jerked with the shock of Charlie's hand on his dick, warm even through his jeans. He looked up and met Charlie's eyes, watching him intently.
"c," Don said, and his voice was as hoarse as if he'd been the one gasping and moaning. "c, no, don't, you don't have to--"
Charlie rolled his eyes and smiled lazily, grinding his hand against Don's cock, and Don couldn't stop his hips snapping into the friction. Don shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He couldn't do this, he couldn't let Charlie do this for him. There was no excuse for this.
"c," he said again, reaching down blindly to pull Charlie's hand away. The touch vanished before Don could catch Charlie's hand--and then Charlie grabbed Don's wrist, dragging his left hand down. Don opened his eyes again to the sight of Charlie licking a stripe across his palm, licking his own come off Don's skin.
Don opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Charlie opened his mouth and sucked one of Don's fingers inside, his eyes on Don's, hot and intent, his tongue doing things Charlie shouldn't know how to do. Don shuddered, sickened and unbearably turned on all at once.
"Don't," he whispered, as much to himself as to Charlie.
Charlie's teeth closed on his fingertip for a second, and then Charlie let go. Don shifted his weight onto one knee, watching Charlie warily--so he saw the motion of Charlie's hands flashing out, barely before he felt them catch him, one at the hip and one at the knee. There was a dizzy instant in midair, and then he hit the floor on his side, concrete barely padded by a sleeping bag.
Charlie shoved him onto his back before Don had quite registered what had happened, straddling his hips and reaching for his belt buckle. The impact hurt, and it had knocked half the breath from his lungs, but that wasn't why his heart was racing.
"Fuck--c--"
"Shut up," Charlie replied, working at Don's belt buckle.
Don shook his head, trying to form words past the friction sound of Charlie yanking his belt off, the feeling of Charlie's hands undoing his jeans, and the throb of his dick, hard as he'd ever been. Charlie went still all of a sudden, his fingers on Don's zipper, and met Don's eyes.
"You think you're hurting me," Charlie said slowly: it was his I know you're not a genius, so I'm being patient voice. Don had been hearing it since Charlie was four years old.
"You're not hurting me. I know what it feels like when people hurt me, and it doesn't feel like this. I want this." Charlie dropped lower over him, suddenly. Don froze, but Charlie, oddly, just pressed his lips to Don's temple, beside his eye. His lips dragged against Don's skin as he went on. "I want you. Now stop arguing with me."
Charlie pushed up again and looked down at him, waiting for an answer.
Don shook his head, but he couldn't say it: You don't want me. You want my alias. You want Mac, you want your guard, you want anyone but your brother. You don't even know you have a brother.
You don't even know I exist.
Charlie's hand slid into Don's jockeys, closing around his dick. Don had to turn his face away from the intent look in Charlie's eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from coming at the first touch of Charlie's fingers. It had been months since anyone else touched him, but he knew it was Charlie's hand on his skin, Charlie's sweaty palm, and Charlie's clever fingers stroking him. His hand moved slowly at first, as though he was feeling his way--because, oh God, because c had never--
Charlie started moving faster, his thumb circling the head of Don's dick, and Don's hips snapped up reflexively. Don bit down until he tasted blood, and he was left gasping against the flare of pain, the irresistible pulse of arousal.
Charlie's hand shifted away, tugging his pants and jockeys down together, and Don helped, kicking them off. He was past the point of denying Charlie anything. Charlie settled over him, straddling him as Don had straddled Charlie, but sinking low, skin to skin, so that Don's dick pressed up against the soft skin of his belly. Charlie rocked against him slowly--learning this, too, one cautious movement at a time--and it was almost, almost enough friction. Don could feel Charlie getting hard again in the tight space between their bodies.
Charlie's mouth dragged up Don's throat, lingering at the point of his jaw. The lightest possible scrape of teeth against the tendon made Don gasp. Charlie's mouth found his, and Charlie moved harder and faster against him as he shoved his tongue inside, and then went abruptly still.
Charlie raised his head far enough to look Don in the eye, licking his lip in a slow, thoughtful swipe, and Don didn't want to hear whatever Charlie was going to say. He raised a hand to the back of Charlie's neck, tugging him down for another kiss. Charlie made a satisfied noise against his mouth and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. He ran the tip of his tongue across the bitten spot on the inside of his cheek, making Don shudder and jerk up hard against Charlie's hip.
Charlie was thrusting steadily now, hard against Don, his breath coming faster between sloppy, wet, coppery kisses. Charlie shifted, getting a hand down between them to line them up, dick to dick, hard and hot for each other. Don arched up, getting his hand on Charlie's ass to pull him down harder, heavier, more. Charlie's mouth was soft on his throat, licking, kissing, and Don could barely breathe, his heart pounding and his hips moving uncontrollably. When Charlie kissed his way up to Don's ear and closed his teeth lightly on the lobe, Don jerked under him one final time, gasped, "Oh, fuck, Charlie--" and came.
Charlie held still over him for a moment. Don could feel Charlie watching him and kept his eyes closed. His whole body felt as heavy as the concrete floor, and if he held still enough, maybe he could just keep feeling good, and not remember anything else. Then Charlie's hand slid down his arm, picking up Don's hand, and Don couldn't resist peering through his eyelashes to see what Charlie was doing.
Charlie was sitting back against Don's thighs, watching Don's face, holding Don's hand. Charlie smiled, tilted his head, and tugged on Don's hand. Don went where Charlie pulled him, curling his hand around Charlie's cock--his right hand this time, at least. The angle was better, and the feeling of a dick in his hand was familiar and strange and hot, in a vague way, stirring something down in his belly, heavy and sated but never indifferent. But Charlie didn't let go of Don's hand, keeping his own curled around it, his palm against Don's knuckles, his fingers over Don's fingers.
Don let his eyes sink all the way shut again, so there was nothing to distract him from the feeling of their hands on Charlie's dick, and then Charlie started to move, dragging Don's hand up and down. Don went where Charlie moved him, jerking Charlie off how Charlie wanted him to. Tighter when Charlie's hand tightened on his, this flick of fingers and that motion with the thumb. Don didn't know whether Charlie was showing him how he liked it or just using him to make it more interesting, but after a while Charlie bent low over their hands and kissed Don's closed eyes and then his mouth, lightly, just lips and ragged breath, touch and go and touch, on and on and on until Charlie came with a sigh against Don's mouth, his cock jerking under their joined hands, hot and wet between their bellies.
Don shook his hand free of Charlie's and pulled Charlie down on top of himself, heavy and warm and still. He laid his hand on Charlie's back, so he could feel the slowing beat of Charlie's heart, and Charlie was breathing wet and quick against Don's throat. They were hot and sticky--God, they were disgusting--but they were both still alive, and maybe he couldn't ask for more than that tonight.
Email is always welcome at dsudis@yahoo.com
Or you can drop me a comment.