Charlie woke up exactly where he'd fallen asleep, tucked against Don's side with Don's arm resting heavily over him. He only had to turn his head and lift Don's wrist slightly to see the face of his watch. It was four-thirty in the morning, and he'd had nearly four hours of sleep. He let go of Don's wrist and pushed up. Don's arm tightened around him, his whole body going tense around Charlie's in an instant and subsiding just as quickly.

"Hey," Don murmured, his voice sleepy, or a good facsimile of it, "it's still dark out, go back to sleep."

"You go back to sleep," Charlie said, because he was already wide awake. Don's arm didn't hold him in place the way it would if it had really been an order. "How do you know it's still dark, anyway?"

But Don didn't answer. By the time Charlie was on his feet, Don seemed to be asleep again, folding forward into the space where Charlie had been lying. Don was right, of course: at four thirty in the morning on the twenty-eighth of November, the sun wouldn't be up yet for hours. Charlie hesitated for a moment, squinting down at his papers in the half-light and wondering why he thought that he knew a precise number. Two hours, nine minutes to sunrise, for this date, this location--what location? He didn't know where he was. He couldn't ever remember seeing the sky.

Charlie shook his head, shuffling papers as he squinted at the boards. He'd been nearly finished with the algorithm he was developing on blackboard six; it only required a few refinements. When he'd found himself trembling and torn over allowing said refinements to encroach on blackboard seven, around the edges of the perpetual chess game, he'd realized that he needed to sleep. Now it seemed clearer and simpler, and it was obvious that nothing would be harmed by a few lines spilling over.

He went to the board and started writing under the work light, leaving the overheads off so Don could sleep. He could see the final shape of the expression emerging, had nearly grasped it, when his concentration was snapped by a clatter from above, footsteps pounding down the stairs. Even as Charlie looked toward the door, Don was on his feet, gun in hand as he moved between Charlie and the doorway, snarling, "Move."

He waved Charlie toward the bathroom, but Charlie was only halfway there when the door was yanked open. He froze at the tables.

Charlie stared, paralyzed, at first registering only Don's hair, spiky and wild in the light from outside. Then Don fell back a step, two steps, and Williamson came in looking grim, breathing fast. It was not a reassuring sight in the slightest.

Williamson glanced briefly at him, then focused on Don. "You know how to administer an injection?"

Don, by his hesitation, didn't know what this was about, but at the mention of an injection it all came clear to Charlie. He fell back another step, heart racing, vision blurring, and barely heard Don's crisp reply.

"Intramuscular or intravenous?"

Williamson said, "Straight to the vein. Give him that, get these cuffs on him, and bring him up to the garage. Leave everything else, the clean-up crew will bring it. Understood?"

"Understood," Don said, and Williamson was gone, leaving the door standing open. The sounds of men moving around upstairs seemed loud. Everything seemed loud, even Don's gentle voice whispering, "c? Charlie? You with me?"

Charlie shook his head, but heard himself say, "We're moving. Usually it's not rushed like this."

Though he didn't know whether it was usually in the middle of the night. Before Don had come, he'd had no idea about when the middle of the night was.

"Do you know what this is?" Don asked, waving a syringe through his vision, the needle-tip still capped.

Charlie nodded jerkily, clutched his elbows and forced himself to let go. "Not the formulation, no, but they drug me each time. It makes me docile and--suggestible."

Don's hand caught his chin, forcing Charlie to meet his eyes, and Charlie could only hold his gaze for an instant before he looked away, at the shine of light on his interrupted work.

"Apt to do as I'm told," he whispered, feeling cold and naked despite his clothes. The dose often lasted longer than the trip from one place to another, and the transport of his blackboards could lag well behind. Handcuffed and semi-sedated, without work to do, he'd been available for the entertainment of Williamson's men.

They hadn't hurt him particularly: hadn't raped him or beaten him too badly to work. The line had always been there, and they hadn't crossed it, but now they knew the line had been crossed with Williamson's permission. Don wouldn't--but who knew what Don's next orders might be? And Don could only protect him for so long as Don was with him. Sometimes not even then.

He felt the chill of cool air on the skin of his forearm as Don pushed his sleeve up, but he wasn't aware that he was shaking until Don said, "Fuck, I can't do this, I'll hit a nerve."

Charlie shook his head and whispered, "You have to, I can't fake it."

Don's hand was on his arm, towing him across the room. Don pushed him down onto the sleeping bags, and Charlie's heart began beating faster, faster yet--he'd miscalculated, Don would--but Don only touched him to cover him up, wrapping the fleece blanket tightly around him, leaving only his left arm exposed. Don rested most of his weight against Charlie, pulling Charlie's left arm straight across his lap, and Charlie shut his eyes, trying not to tense and failing miserably. There was the pinch of the needle's entry, and the steady swelling ache of the drug pushing into his body, displacing blood, overloading his veins.

He heard the clatter of the syringe striking the floor, and the pinch and ache settled to a low, slow burn in the crook of his arm.

"I'm right here," Don whispered, "I am right here."

But the handcuffs were there, too, closing first around Charlie's left wrist, and then, once Don had dug his other hand out of his wrappings, locking around his right. Charlie's hands scrabbled helplessly, uselessly, against Don's knee, and Don's hands closed around them, warm and steady but forcing him to be still all the same.

"I am right here," Don whispered again. "I am your guard. I'll be with you. It's my job."

Charlie nodded, his cheek dragging against the fleece, and Don said, "Can you walk?"

"I fall down a lot." His words were already slurring, his limbs already going heavy.

Don's arm was hard and steady around him, levering him up and tucking the blanket around him when it fell away. Charlie got a bit of it between his fingers and held on. His head sagged against Don's shoulder as Don walked him as far as the door, but at the foot of the stairs Don sighed and bent, sliding one arm behind Charlie's knees and scooping him up with a gruff murmur of, "Tuck your head, you need it."

Charlie curled obediently closer, pressing his forehead against Don's throat. He could smell Don's skin when he breathed, and if he closed his eyes and didn't think too hard, it was almost like being back in the basement, going to sleep, though he knew he wouldn't quite lose consciousness, only teeter on the foggy edge.

From a long way off he heard Williamson say, "Was there some part of 'leave everything else' that wasn't clear, Mac?" and he felt the low rumble in Don's chest as Don said something about shoes. He hadn't been told to listen, only to keep his head down, so Charlie stayed still and quiet.

Don sat staring into the dark, wondering how much time had passed. The interior of the van Williamson had hustled them into had no windows, and the door had no handle on this side. There were no seats or seatbelts, just a blank dark space, too big for Don to brace against any two sides. Don had some idea of when they sped up or slowed down or changed direction, but no idea how fast they were actually moving, or where.

The only gauge of passing time he had was his own heartbeat and Charlie's; he'd been testing them against each other periodically, and he thought Charlie's had been speeding up, getting steadier, but he had no real way of knowing. Charlie had stayed slumped half across his lap for the whole ride so far, wrapped in the blanket that Williamson hadn't taken away, though he'd given Don a nasty smirk over it.

After a few decelerations in a row--one sharp enough to wrench a startled noise from Charlie as his weight was thrown against Don--Don decided it was time to start trying to get Charlie talking. Hours might have passed by now; the dose could be starting to wear off.

Don pried Charlie upright. "Come on, genius. Time to sit up for me."

"M'a genius," Charlie mumbled against Don's arm. Don shifted his grip, tugging; Charlie was as good as dead weight, only moving in uncoordinated, unhelpful twitches.

"Math genius," he added, his head falling heavy against Don's arm as Don manhandled him into a sitting position. He sagged sideways against Don, and Don scooted closer to support him. Charlie was nearer to the door, which Don didn't like, but he didn't want to try to shift Charlie further away from it just yet.

There was another deceleration, slowing them nearly to a stop this time, Don thought, followed by a turn and a sharp acceleration, a quick heavy roar from the engine. Don slid his arm around Charlie's shoulders and squeezed.

"You awake, genius?"

"Yeah." Charlie settled his head on Don's shoulder. "'Wake."

Don tried to think of some way to check his mental state, something like the standard run of head-injury questions, tailored to a semi-sedated math genius with amnesia. Something popped into his head, a game Charlie used to try to get Don or their parents or babysitters or innocent bystanders to play with him, and Don spoke before he thought.

"Tell me a prime number," Don said, staring into the dark. The ride was bumpier now, not as fast as the highway, and as hard as he listened there was no sound from the cab. Had the men been ordered not to speak, not to listen to the radio?

"Thir'y-one," Charlie murmured obligingly. "Now you."

"Two," Don said. "Your turn."

They were slowing again, more sharply this time. Don reached out his right hand to the wall, bracing them both, hating to have his hand so far from his gun.

"Three hunnerd sev'n. Don' say three."

"Five," Don said. "Ha."

It was a full stop this time, and another quick acceleration. Charlie wiggled against him; trying to elbow him, Don thought, thwarted by the drugs and the cuffs and the blanket. Don tugged the blanket away, freeing Charlie's arms. He found Charlie's thigh with one hand, warm through his jeans, all hard, wiry muscle. He squeezed just above Charlie's knee.

"Move your feet for me."

"Eigh'y-nine," Charlie mumbled, but his legs moved, his sock feet thumping quietly against the floor. "Now--"

They turned sharply this time, at speed, and Charlie fell over toward the door, making a high startled sound as he went. Don scrambled up into a crouch over him, pushing him bodily toward the back driver's side corner. Charlie struggled feebly and Don's booted foot caught on the blanket, but after a moment he had Charlie propped there. He found Charlie's hands with his, slid his fingers against Charlie's palms as he dropped to his knees, trying to brace against the next deceleration, and said, "Squeeze."

Charlie squeezed, muttering, "three-'leven, two-six'y-three, four-oh-one."

His grip was weak, fluttering erratically, and when the van made a lateral move Charlie let go altogether, falling sideways again. Don fell back, scrambling toward the front wall as they decelerated again, on rougher terrain this time--gravel or dirt, probably an unpaved shoulder. His feet slipped on Charlie's blanket, and he grabbed it and tossed it toward where Charlie was lying.

From up front, he heard a sudden, explosive, "Fuck," and then they were braking hard.

Amid the pings and bangs of rocks striking the undercarriage Don though he could hear other, slightly more distant, percussive noises. He made his awkward way back to Charlie, who was lying against the back wall, half-covered by the blanket.

"Cover your head," Don said sharply. "Cover your head with your arms."

He heard Charlie comply, reached out a hand to confirm it, briefly squeezing the point of Charlie's elbow, and then spread the blanket over him.

"Stay still and stay quiet."

The van stopped completely, and Don managed not to fall this time, but moved himself in front of the door. The engine cut out, and in the sudden silence he heard shouting and then--yes, definitely gunshots, one, two, three shots. Handguns, but he couldn't distinguish caliber from in here. His own gun was in his hand, and he couldn't remember when he'd drawn it. He curled his finger around the trigger guard, hefting the weight of the weapon. The passenger side door opened up front, and the front quarter of the car rose slightly as someone got out. Running footsteps passed the sliding door and kept going, and two shots were fired from somewhere beyond the back of the van.

There wasn't enough shouting, Don thought. No one was yelling Stop or FBI or calling for backup. He couldn't even make out footsteps all the time, just the occasional shot, nearer or farther, and then the driver's side door opened, and more footsteps took off running, more shots were fired.

He tried to hear Charlie breathing, and couldn't. Don had told him to keep quiet; he was being very quiet now. Don's heart was pounding, his palm sweating against the grip plate of the Sig as he crouched in front of the sliding door, waiting, waiting.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunched up to the door. A gun fired twice, at close range, a bang and the high whine of metal giving way, and Don couldn't help flinching. Two holes opened up near where the outside handle ought to be, letting in a faint light. He couldn't look away from them to see where the rounds had gone. His heart raced faster, waiting for a ricochet, a change of angle, waiting for the lock to give way.

Williamson's men would have a key, or would keep driving. Don could hear voices now, muttering. Two men at least. If they got the door open they'd have him and then Charlie, like fish in a barrel. Don could hear where they were standing, on what must be the shoulder of the road, some back road somewhere. There was no sound of traffic, no sirens bearing down on them despite the running gunfight going on outside. The two men outside the van were the only thing between him and Charlie and open space.

Don felt something shift in his brain, simultaneous with yet another burst of adrenaline, and his hand tightened on the gun. He knew his tactical situation. He knew his mission. He had to get the civilian to safety. That was all there was to it.

For the first time in months, Don felt utterly in control.

He sat down, bracing himself with his left hand behind him, keeping his right hand and the gun up and ready. He kicked hard at the door, rolling to his right just as another shot was fired, this one right where he'd been. Stupid of them, if they knew what was in this van, if they were after the genius; they could have hit him. So either they didn't know what they were after, or they didn't know what they were doing. Don rolled back before the sound of the shot had died, kicked again harder at the weakened lock, and this time something gave way.

He fired, one two three four five shots at the two dark figures revealed when the door slid back on the gray light before dawn. In the silence that followed Don could finally hear Charlie breathing in choked, half-muffled sobs, over the ringing in his ears.

His throat ached, and he could faintly hear someone crying, far away. He wanted to tell them to stop, but he had to be quiet. Don had said he had to keep quiet. The blanket was yanked back, but he didn't move, only cringing back against the wall. Don's voice, tinny like it was coming through a radio, said, "Stop it--genius, stop."

When Don said genius it sounded the same as Charlie, not self-negating like the way Williamson said Know-It-All. He still didn't know what Don wanted him to stop doing, though, until Don's hand pressed over his mouth and Don's mouth came right down near his ear, and he felt, "Shhhhh," against his skin more than heard it in his half-deafened ear.

"We have to move," Don said against his cheek. "Do you understand me? We have to get out of here."

Charlie nodded, his mouth dragging against Don's palm. He wasn't sure what Don wanted him to do, but he knew Don had wanted him to nod. Don's hand shifted away from his mouth, closed around one wrist and tugged. Charlie closed his eyes against the dizziness--ears, ears, his ears were broken--as Don pulled him up to his knees, dragging him forward. He shivered suddenly, violently, as the cold air washed over him and turned his head away from the light to try and find his blanket.

"Wait," he tried to say, though what he could hear of his own voice was a garbled whimper. "Wait--"

Don's hand left his wrist for a moment, and then the blanket was wadded up, stuffed into the locked circle of his arms.

"Hold on to it for now," Don said, and pulled Charlie forward again into the gray light and the sharp cold.

The floor dropped out from under him and his feet followed, but the ground beneath was uneven--no, the ground beneath was people, dead, splashed luridly with blood, torn apart--that was why he was deaf, Don's gun had fired in the tiny space, so many times, like thunder right inside his head. Don pulled him, and Charlie stumbled after, falling against him. Don caught him awkwardly, one-handed; Charlie peered across Don's body and realized that Don's right hand still held the gun out to his side, away from Charlie.

"Come on," Don said, and pulled on his wrist again.

Charlie stumbled unevenly after him. The ground was hard and cold and jagged, hurting his feet. Charlie bit his lip and clutched his blanket. He limped as fast as he could, leaning heavily on Don's grip. He didn't know how far they'd gone when he looked up from the ground--white in spots, gray-brown in others--to look around, and then he stopped dead.

The light was gray and watery, but he could see--he could see a long way, ground and more ground, a road and trees and the sky unfurling forever in all directions, dizzying, unfathomable. And it wasn't just that the air was cold, it was that it was empty, moving without encountering obstacles. He was outside.

There was a distant popping sound, and then a series of pops, somewhere behind them.

Don snarled, "Dammit."

His arm went around Charlie's back and hauled him forward again so hard that Charlie nearly fell on his face. But Don kept him upright, somehow, kept him moving, and then there was less wind, less view, less sky, more obstacles--trees.

The ground was softer, and Charlie choked off a sob of gratitude in his throat as Don ground to a halt, still holding Charlie hard to his side. Charlie pressed close, trying to rest his weight against Don, trying to warm himself against Don's body--but the air got in everywhere, even into the soft lump of his blanket in his arms. Charlie shook and shook without stopping.

"Okay," Don said, his voice dropping lower. "Okay, just a little further. Come on, Charlie, stay with me."

Don pulled him along more gently, though still quickly, into a small space where trees and bushes grew thickly. Then Don tugged the blanket out of his arms and wrapped it around Charlie, pinning his arms again. Charlie made some small sound at that, and Don said, "Shhhh, it's all right, sit down, sit down."

Don pushed, and Charlie sat. Don tucked the blanket over his feet and heaped leaves and dirt all around him--getting the blanket dirty, dulling the red--and whispered, "Stay here, all right? Stay still and stay quiet until I come back, do you understand me, Charlie? Don't move from this spot until I come back."

Charlie nodded, but Don caught his chin and held him still.

"What did I say?" Don whispered, staring into Charlie's eyes, though Charlie's own gaze tended to drift.

"Stay," Charlie murmured. The ringing was dying away from his ears, leaving a cold, empty quiet. "Stay t'you come back."

Don knew he was holding on too hard; Charlie's eyes were wide, glazed, terrorized, the scar beside his left eye standing out starkly in his pale face. Charlie didn't have enough idea of what was going on to be terrified of anything that wasn't right in front of him, and what was right in front of him was Don.

"I'll come back," Don whispered, leaned in and pressed his lips hard to Charlie's forehead.

Then Don was on his feet again, running as quietly as he could. He moved parallel to the road, back in the direction they'd been driving, watching and listening. He had to leave Charlie; he couldn't scout and drag Charlie at the same time. Charlie didn't even have shoes. He was safer staying put. Don knew that, but he couldn't help listening with all his might in that direction while he tried to see what was going on.

The stand of trees was maybe forty yards back from the road. Don could see the black van was still there, sliding door still hanging open, two dead bodies leaking red in the snow beside it. There was a sedan parked some way ahead, and a pickup truck behind, but no sign of movement anywhere along the stretch of road Don could see. Going back toward the vehicles was exactly the same problem that staying with them would have been: obvious targets to whoever had still been firing on the opposite side of the road.

If he could see where the shooters were, and who they were--if he could get some kind of grip on the larger tactical situation--then maybe he could get himself and Charlie out of here in one piece, out out out and free. Everything he'd done to Charlie a week ago would be over, would be behind them, if he could just get Charlie to safety.

Don heard a small sound. It was off to his left, not more than ten feet away, and Don froze behind the scant cover of a pair of trees, cursing his wandering attention. One step at a time: step one, don't get killed. He flexed his hand on the Sig, shifted his weight carefully. He'd been afraid he'd busted something in his right leg getting that door open, but everything worked. There was just a tingly, half-numb sensation, not unlike the feeling of five quick one-handed shots' worth of recoil in his right arm and shoulder. Don allowed himself a second with his eyes closed, an instant of the desperate, focused hope that had been standing in for prayers since he was seventeen. He took one deep breath, and then he whirled toward the sound, two running strides with his gun level and a hard stop.

He was face to face with Williamson, Williamson's Beretta trained on him as steadily as his Sig on Williamson, gazes locked. Don didn't lower his gun. Williamson didn't lower his. Don couldn't read anything in the steady gaze, the slight open-mouthed smile that might just have been a gasp for breath. He tried to keep his own face impassive, but he was calculating desperately: if he shot Williamson now--if he killed Williamson here, if Williamson fired simultaneously and killed him--could Charlie survive? The sun was coming up, the air would get warmer, and the drug would wear off. Charlie would probably know to find help. If there was help to be found. If Williamson's own men, or Williamson's enemies, didn't find him first.

Every second he held his aim he gave something away to Williamson, but Don couldn't lower the gun, not when Williamson had a weapon trained on him, not when Williamson might squeeze that trigger. If Williamson killed him, Don couldn't afford to go down alone. Don couldn't look away.

He could feel sweat rolling down his temple, clammy in the cold, but he couldn't waver, couldn't back down, couldn't shift his finger off the trigger. Williamson's mouth twitched toward a wider smile, but Don just stared back. Behind him, the sound he'd been listening for caught his ear: Charlie, voice wavering and desperate on a slurred, "No."

Don turned and started to run, turning his back on Williamson's gun, his shoulder blades itching, waiting for the bullet that didn't strike.

Charlie was gabbling, "No, no, don't--" and then cut off abruptly, and Don pushed himself faster. He couldn't stumble, couldn't fall, not now, they had Charlie--Don rebounded off trees and jumped every dip in the ground until he saw a flash of red. He crashed through the brush as Charlie's blanket was tossed up in the air, and found Randy bending over Charlie, Charlie's face in the dirt, his fingers scrabbling against the ground--trying to stay, Don realized.

He was running full-throttle into the scene of a crime in progress, and his mouth was open to yell, Freeze!

Don shut it hard, kept his finger off the trigger, and hit Randy squarely in the chest with his gun, knocking him flat to the ground with a whoosh of lost breath. Don dropped to his knees at Charlie's side, between him and Randy, side on to keep Randy in his peripheral vision. Awkwardly, left-handed, he grabbed Charlie's shoulder and said, "Hey, hey, genius, it's all right. I'm back, calm down."

Charlie didn't calm down. He swarmed off the ground in a wild, flailing, convulsive movement and wrapped himself bodily around Don, pressing his face against Don's thigh. Don settled his hand on Charlie's head, and glanced over to check on Randy just in time to see him trying to get to his feet, his face a furious, ugly mask.

Don leveled his weapon and said, "One step closer and I will shoot you in the head, I am not kidding."

Randy opened his mouth, going for his own gun, and Don thought loose cannon, hell, not now, not now, and then Williamson spoke from behind him.

"Randy, go find Skip. We need to get moving."

Randy's hand fell to his side, his face going blank. He nodded toward Williamson and jogged off into the trees.

He turned toward the sensation of softness against his cheek: his blanket. Above him, Don said, "You have to let go of me for a second, genius," and he obeyed before he could think that he didn't want to. He'd gotten to that awful stage of the dose when his brain cleared enough to argue, but not enough to do anything--but Don's hands didn't leave him, even as he uncurled. They wrapped his blanket around him again, and then lifted him up against Don's chest. Charlie ducked his head against Don's throat, and would have held on if he could. Instead he closed a feeble fist around the edge of his blanket.

Don said, "I want a flashlight this time." His voice was quiet, but he sounded angry, as cold and hard as the ground. Charlie flinched, and Don's arms tightened around him. "And a first aid kit, if you want him to be able to walk or hold a piece of chalk any time soon."

Don wasn't talking to him: Don was talking about him, to--

Williamson said, "Have you forgotten who's in charge here?"

Charlie shut his eyes tight, vibrating in sudden sharp terror, suspended between Don and Williamson and unable even to cower. There was so much violence waiting to coalesce, and him at the center, the focus.

"No," Don said tightly, but the word meant yes. "I'm just trying to do my job. His feet and hands are bleeding. He's going to have gangrene if you don't let me--"

The click of a radio engaging, and Don fell silent. Williamson said, "Skip, I want the emergency kit in the compartment."

Faintly, a voice from the radio said, "Roger that, boss. ETA ninety seconds."

Williamson didn't say anything after that, and Charlie wasn't sure if the shuddering he felt was himself, or Don's arms shaking. He felt dizzy, and his hands and feet burned in the cold. Gangrene. He rubbed his face against Don's throat, and Don's chin pressed against the top of his head briefly. Then there was a crunching sound, and then motion, slow and unsteady.

He opened his eyes and saw the sky and the trees and the earth all swinging wildly as Don walked, and shut his eyes again quickly, not opening them again until everything went still. They were at the van, but it was white now. Someone was climbing out, and then everything shifted again as Don climbed in and laid him down. The door rattled shut, plunging them into darkness, and Don cursed, low-voiced. Charlie flexed his fingers--they stung a little but were mostly numb, and the sensation was far away. He wondered what it would be like if he couldn't hold chalk anymore--could he make Don write for him?--and then there were some plastic sounds and then light, yellow and dim and startling. Charlie banged his elbow against the floor and muffled a yelp as the engine roared to life and they started to move.

"It's okay," Don said, "It's all right. You know what, yell all you want, now."

Charlie's mouth fell open without thought, and he said, "Ahhhh," obediently.

He frowned even as Don, face lit by the flashlight as he held it over his head looking for something, smiled. The sound barely carried above the rumble of the engine, and it couldn't possibly be considered a yell. Charlie tried again, but his vocal cords obeyed him no better than his hands. His next, "Ahhhhhh," was more emphatic but little louder, and he sounded like a zombie, brain-dead--and if his brain didn't work--if he couldn't hold chalk, if he couldn't work, if he--gangrene--

"Ahhhh!"

His last effort ended in sputters, choking on his own spit, his own fear, bitter in his mouth, and Don's hand was on his face.

"Shh," Don said, tugging Charlie's blanket off and running his hands over Charlie's chest and belly, "shh, hey, rain check on the yelling, okay? Ease up, genius. Ease up."

Charlie closed his eyes, mouth hanging open as he panted. Don's hand landed next on his thigh, sliding quickly down to his ankle, tugging off his sock. Don's fingers pressed along the sole of his foot, and Charlie flinched from the tickle. Don caught his ankle and held him still, pressing harder, and then said, "Charlie, your foot--the blood--"

He'd stepped in it.

"Y' killed 'em," Charlie murmured.

Don's hand tightened hard on his ankle for a second, then let go, tugging off his other sock, checking his other foot.

"Yeah," Don said, almost a sigh, and the hand that had held the gun moved gently and steadily over Charlie's skin. "Yeah, I did."

Charlie wasn't quite as roughed up as he'd looked, more dirt than blood, and the worst of the blood wasn't his. Don tried not to think about the fact that Charlie had stepped on a body, that he hadn't noticed that Charlie had stepped on a body. Worse had already happened to Charlie; he'd done worse to Charlie himself. And now they were back in the van, headed to wherever Williamson wanted them to go, and worse things would go right on happening to Charlie until Don could find a way out.

Charlie shook harder and harder as Don checked him over, the cuffs rattling on his wrists as Don cleaned up his hands, using every alcohol wipe in the kit and probably more gauze and antibiotic ointment than was really necessary. It made him feel better, anyway, gave him an excuse to run his hands over Charlie's skin, banishing the image of him on the ground and out of reach. Still, he worked quickly, because it wasn't helping Charlie much. Don could feel Charlie shaking harder the more the cuffs rattled, a vicious cycle; by the time he was done he could hear Charlie's teeth chattering.

He pulled Charlie up against his chest, and Charlie nuzzled in against Don's throat as Don got his hand on the cuffs, muffling them. Charlie's hands closed around his wrist, holding on weakly. Don switched off the flashlight and closed his arms around Charlie and held on, humming softly into Charlie's hair, staring at the darkness. At some point Charlie became suddenly heavy and dense, his grip relaxing completely, his breath warm and easy on Don's skin. He was asleep. Don let his own eyes close, then, and didn't open them until the van was braking to a stop.

The door rolled open and Skip was standing there. For a wild, disoriented instant Don tensed, about to push Charlie away and reach for his gun, because it was just one man in his way this time, just one--but when he looked past Skip he spotted Randy, leaning against the wall behind him, and heard the low voices of others, a little further off. Don gritted his teeth and ducked his head. He held on to Charlie and forced himself to be still. Today's chance had passed. He'd have to wait for another.

Skip said, "Come on, Mac, move it."

Don scooted forward on his ass, Charlie still dead weight in his arms. He staggered when he stood up and Skip caught his arm, steadying him. Don glanced around, taking in the layout. It was almost identical to the last house, though there was only one concrete step up to the door into the house, and the doorknob seemed to be of a heavier construction. He let his gaze flick past Randy without settling, but he could see that Randy was watching him--watching them--intently.

Skip lead them inside--away from that gaze--and not down into the basement but up, through a bright, sunny kitchen and down a hallway to the stairs up to the second floor. Skip took a right at the top, and there was a steel door standing open, a bar set into the frame on the outside. Skip stood aside, and Don stepped through. The door slammed shut behind him.

The room was almost completely dark. There was a single crack of light showing where a window had been imperfectly blocked. It was enough to guide Don across the empty expanse of the floor to the only object in the room, a bare mattress lying against the far wall.

He crouched and laid Charlie down, staying put for a second to make sure Charlie stayed asleep. But Charlie was sleeping heavily--drugged, exhausted, crashing off terror and adrenaline--and didn't so much as twitch. Don listened to him breathing until he noticed his own hands shaking, and then straightened up so fast he got dizzy. His arms felt strange without Charlie in them, rubbery and useless. He stood for a second, getting his balance, looking down at the still shape of Charlie on the mattress until he couldn't look anymore.

Don turned away sharply, realizing as he did that the floor was carpeted. Charlie wouldn't hear him. He paced away from Charlie to the door--put his hand against it but didn't push, didn't try the knob, because it would be locked, it would always be locked--and then up the length of the room and back. He didn't quite register the doorway until he was stepping through it--it was a bathroom, pitch dark. The space felt larger than the basement bathroom, but Don stopped short at the sink, fumbling the tap on by feel and ducking his head to drink tepid water from the tap. It tasted rusty and sour, like bad milk, but he forced himself to drink, and then splashed some on his face.

His hands closed on the edge of the sink, and he held on tight, keeping himself up by his braced arms as he shook, feeling sick for reasons that had nothing to do with a stomach full of well water. He'd killed two men today. He headn't even thought, hadn't hesitated. He hadn't even considered calling out Freeze--not then--he'd just killed them.

He'd come within a breath of killing two more, and he'd have been fucking glad to see Randy or Williamson dead at his feet. He'd maybe blown his cover, nearly lost Charlie. He'd risked so much, and here he was. Here they were. Locked in another room, this time with carpeting and a mattress and a crack of light from outside.

Don's arms shook with strain, and his gun was heavy under his arm. He'd killed two men today, and it hadn't been nearly enough.

He woke up in the dark, shivering. He tried for a moment to just shut his eyes and go back to sleep, but he knew he wouldn't be able to. He had to find something to cover himself with, or he'd just shiver and shake until he felt sick, and then he'd never get back to sleep. If there was nothing, he'd have to pace or try to warm himself the best he could. He should be working, anyway. He tried to remember what he was working on just now, but it skittered away from him.

He tried to turn and reach for his sleeping bag, but his hands were cuffed and the surface beneath him was unexpectedly yielding. He remembered abruptly, taking a step down onto uneven ground that gave underfoot--a body--and was instantly seized with the horrible sensation of lying on a body--he could see himself, suddenly, tossed into a grave, landing on another body, already beginning to cool--Don--

He reached out his hands, the metal jangling and heavy, and his palms struck a hard, rough surface like plywood--like the inside of a makeshift coffin--and he scrabbled at it desperately. His fingers just slipped away, not making real contact--they were bound in some way, covered, useless--couldn't hold chalk--gangrene--

He tried to scream, but he couldn't draw a breath. Something clamped down crushingly tight around his chest, closing his throat and choking off any sound. He tried to push up, to get up, get away, but his body turned heavy and stupid and wouldn't cooperate. He was dead and rotting and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.

Hands caught him, pushing him down, and he tried to struggle, but it was useless. The other hands were attached to someone live, someone warm. The hands were strong, and someone was talking to him in a low, urgent voice, someone was saying, "Charlie, Charlie, come here, come back, come on, Charlie."

He realized that the voice sounded scared just as he realized that there was some light now, enough to see that it was Don above him, talking to him.

Charlie shut his eyes tight and thought panic attack, and wondered why he knew those words but not how to make it stop, how to breathe, how to be sure he wouldn't die of it this time. His heart still raced, he still gasped hollowly for breath, but Don's hands stayed steady. It was only something soft under him, not a body. He was in a dark room, not a grave. His fingers were wrapped in bandages, not paralyzed, not numb. Adrenaline, not a heart attack, not blood at the back of his throat.

He raised his hands again, and managed to close his fingers in Don's shirt--clenched them so hard they hurt, joints protesting and tape pulling at his skin, and he was breathing now, too, damp rasping gasps that were almost sobs. He started to shake. His eyes prickled and he turned his head away from Don, trying to hide it.

It was stupid, after everything, to be so scared of nothing, of a mattress. Even as he thought it he remembered the men Don had killed, remembered being outside and Randy and Williamson, and his shaking only intensified, his breathing still ragged and fast. Don's hands started to move from his arms, sliding over his shoulders. One hand curled at the back of his neck, the other rubbed lightly down his back, following the tight defensive curve of his spine.

"Charlie," Don whispered, "Charlie, hey, shh, Charlie."

He didn't think he'd heard Don say his name so many times since he'd first spoken it, and there was a funny shaky edge to it. He'd thought Don was scared, when he first spoke.

"Charlie," Don said again, his mouth close to Charlie's ear, his hands still moving, slower and warm on his skin. "Charlie, tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you."

Charlie turned his face up, looking up at Don, their faces nearly close enough to touch. He wanted to touch Don, but he didn't think he could bear to let go of Don's shirt, and wouldn't be able to feel Don's skin if he did set his bandaged fingers against it. Charlie didn't think he could bear to touch Don and not feel him. Don was staring down at him with wide eyes, dark in the shadows, and Charlie could feel Don's breath, quick and damp on his lips.

"Charlie," Don whispered.

He still sounded scared; he looked scared. Charlie thought for a frantic instant that he had to be wrong, that it couldn't be true--but all the signs he had so often recognized in himself were present. He and Don were a completed matrix, (almost) always bracketed by four walls. They had always been in this together.

"Charlie," Don said, "Tell me what I can do for you and I will do it."

Charlie blinked and tightened his grip on Don's shirt, swallowed down the bitter fear choking him, and said, "Kiss me."

It wasn't that Don didn't expect Charlie to say it. He'd known Charlie would say that. He just hadn't expected Charlie to say it like that, his voice oddly steady, firm for all it was a whisper, a command rather than a plea. Don blinked down at him, and as he hesitated he could see the uncertainty creeping back into Charlie's eyes--he was still shaking, still trying to catch his breath--and that was all wrong. He wanted Charlie to trust him. He wanted Charlie to be able to say things. He wanted to give Charlie whatever he needed to make up for coming to locked in another windowless room.

Don tugged Charlie closer and kissed him, his lips parting quickly against Charlie's. Charlie shifted up into the kiss, his tongue darting into Don's mouth, there and gone and back, wet and teasing. Don leaned over him, groaning against Charlie's mouth as heat gathered in his groin, and Charlie's teeth scraped his lip. Charlie's hands shifted, and Don felt them come up short against the cuffs, heard the sharp click of metal. Charlie shuddered, turning his head to gasp, and Don moved, lowering himself to lie beside Charlie on the mattress.

"Tell me," he whispered against Charlie's mouth, running his fingers through Charlie's hair. "Tell me what to do, Charlie."

That had to make it better, if he only did what Charlie asked, what Charlie needed. That had to make it less like forcing himself on his baby brother, cuffed and hurt and scared.

He felt another shiver run through Charlie, but Charlie whispered, "Touch me. Skin--under--"

Charlie pushed closer, kissing him again, interrupting himself. His mouth moved quickly, hungrily, against Don's. Don let his left hand slide down to the bottom of Charlie's shirt and up under it. Charlie's skin was warm under his palm, his ribs hard and prominent under Don's fingers. Charlie moaned and shifted against him, squirming closer. His hips hitched against Don's thigh, and Don's breath caught at the feel of Charlie's hard-on through his jeans. He let his hand ride higher, his thumb finding Charlie's nipple almost by accident, and Charlie made a startled sound and jerked against him.

"More," Charlie breathed against Don's mouth, "touch me, more."

Don shivered and Charlie shifted again, hooking a leg around Don's thigh to pull them together. He was stronger than Don expected, and Don's hips snapped reflexively against Charlie's. He was hard himself. His breath was ragged against Charlie's mouth as his right hand found the soft skin of Charlie's hip, fingers sliding under the waist of his jeans. Charlie's mouth struck his off-center. Charlie's tongue slid wet and fast over his lower lip, and then Charlie whispered, "Undo my jeans."

Charlie's fingers were on Don's face, his palms on either side of Don's jaw. When Don leaned in to kiss Charlie, he could feel the links of the cuffs, hard and cool against his throat. His own breath stuttered, and his hand slid away from the button of Charlie's jeans, palming Charlie's cock through the denim. Charlie's fingers dug into his cheeks. Charlie's tongue slid roughly into Don's mouth as he thrust against Don's hand, hard and hot and impatient, and Don groaned and thrust back. He tilted his head, licking deep into Charlie's mouth, and Charlie's hands shifted on his face an instant before Don felt a sharp pinch on his throat. He jerked away from Charlie's hands, and Charlie squirmed down, licking softly at the spot on Don's throat where the links had caught.

"First the button," he breathed against Don's skin, rocking into Don's hand on his jeans. "Then the zipper."

Don bit down on his own lip--he was hard, painfully, throbbing hard in his jeans--but this was for Charlie, and Charlie had told him what to do. He found the button with his left hand and clumsily thumbed it off, then pushed the zipper down, the metal teeth pricking at his skin as he shoved his hand inside.

Charlie said, "Oh, yeah," and stopped licking, falling onto his back, but Don followed him, his hands on Charlie's balls through the thin fabric of his worn boxers. Charlie bucked up into the touch, his dick pressing up against Don's wrist, and then Charlie gasped, "Stop." Don froze.

Charlie pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, and Don could breathe.

"I want to see," Charlie muttered, and Don pulled his hand out of Charlie's jeans and moved away as Charlie squirmed around awkwardly, pushing himself up to sit with his back to the wall. The light fell on him from the side, on his flushed cheeks and his messy hair and his open pants, his dick straining against the fabric of his shorts in the gap. Charlie held his hands to his chest, the white of his bandaged fingers bright against his skin. He curled one finger at Don, and Don leaned in irresistibly.

Charlie whispered, "Push them down. Not all the way, just--" and Don nodded, bending over Charlie's lap and pushing his jeans and boxers down just far enough to get his dick out.

It was hot and silky-hard in his hand, and already familiar. Don swallowed, ignoring the way his own dick jerked as he stroked Charlie, focusing on the quick thrust of Charlie's hips, the stutter of Charlie's breath. He could smell him, all sweat and sex, his thumb slipping easily over the head, already damp. Charlie gasped, and his hands landed on Don's head, pushing it a little lower, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Charlie's cock. His lips parted and he took another breath, and above him Charlie said, "Do it, Don."

Don tilted his head, looking up at Charlie looking down at him. Charlie's eyes were shadowed, but his mouth twitched toward a smile as he said, "Please."

His hands tightened in Don's hair. Don closed his eyes and lowered his head, his hand still curled around the base of Charlie's cock. He let his lips touch the head, and felt Charlie shudder all over, his hands clenching. Don licked, the taste of Charlie exploding on his tongue, and Charlie gasped, "Please."

Don's mouth was open wide before he could think, sliding down onto Charlie's dick, and it was exactly like that image he'd been carrying around in his head for weeks, except now that he was here he wanted it, the heat and the weight of Charlie's dick, pushing into his mouth. He tried to be careful--he knew he didn't know what he was doing--but Charlie's hands held him down, the cuffs across the back of his head now, and Charlie jerked up erratically into his mouth. Don tried to relax and let him, catching his breath when he could, letting his tongue slide wetly against the underside of Charlie's cock as it thrust into his mouth, a choking impact against his throat.

Charlie's hips jerked harder, and Don had to back off, pushing up against Charlie's hands tightening fiercely in his hair. For a wild second he thought Charlie wouldn't let him, and he jerked up against Charlie's hands, far enough to get Charlie's dick out of his mouth--but Charlie didn't push again, his thumbs moving against Don's head in a clumsy caress. Don gave Charlie a rough quick stroke with his hand, and Charlie went almost rigid, his whole body tensing in the instant before he bucked under Don's hand, coming and coming as Don stroked him through it.

Charlie slumped back all at once, slouching against the wall. His hands were dead weight on Don's head, and Don let himself fold over, resting his forehead on Charlie's thigh. His own hips jerked reflexively, his cock aching in the constriction of his jeans, but he couldn't move yet, couldn't look into Charlie's eyes. He stayed still, gasping, and every breath was Charlie, stinging his mouth and throat. He felt raw, battered in a completely unfamiliar way, but he kept his eyes closed and kept breathing, waiting for the moment to pass.

Charlie's hands moved, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, the metal of the cuffs cold against the back of his neck. Don shuddered, and Charlie tugged.

"Come on," Charlie murmured, his voice gone soft. His hands were still strong, though, and Don lifted his head and moved, crawling up Charlie's body until they were face to face, and Charlie whispered, "Open your eyes," against Don's mouth.

He didn't think he could do it, but he'd told Charlie he would do what Charlie told him to, so when Charlie said, "Don," he opened his eyes. They were Charlie's eyes, dark and familiar, the only familiar thing. Don leaned in and kissed him softly, just once, because Charlie looked him in the eye.

Then Charlie tugged at the collar of his shirt again and said, "Take this off for me."

Don knelt up and pulled his shirt up and off, and as he did, Charlie's hands landed on the front of his pants. Don thrust against the touch as he dropped his shirt, and Charlie stroked him through his jeans, but when Charlie moved to open them his wrists caught against the cuffs, and his bandaged fingers slipped. Don tensed, but Charlie glared at his own hands in frustration instead of fear and said, "Open your pants."

Don obeyed without hesitation, sighing his relief, eyes half-closing as he slid his hand into his jockeys. Charlie said, "Wait."

Don opened his eyes just far enough to glare--but Charlie wasn't teasing. His eyes were wide, locked on Don's hand.

"Sit down," Charlie said, jerking his chin to the spot beside him. Don took his hand off his dick with an effort and moved, turning to sit next to Charlie, and Charlie immediately slumped against his left side, pressing his mouth to Don's bare shoulder.

"Now," Charlie murmured, even as Don wrapped his hand around his dick again, his breath catching at the familiar feel of his own hand, under the weight of Charlie's eyes.

"Show me what you like," Charlie said, licking his skin, and Don groaned, jerking himself hard, the friction a burn on thin skin. He took his hand away, raising it to lick, but Charlie said, "Let me."

Don held his hand steady and watched as Charlie leaned in and licked a wide wet stripe across his hand, from the base of his palm to his fingertips. Don's dick twitched at the sensation without even being touched, and when he closed his hand around himself again there was a little wet sound in the slide of skin on skin, the heat of Charlie's body against his side and Charlie's mouth against his throat. He was close, his hips snapping up against his own hand, and then Charlie whispered, "Oh, you like me," and Don was coming, his head falling back hard against the wall, Charlie sucking softly at his throat.

Don let his eyes drift shut, his hands lying on his thighs, even as he heard and felt the motion of Charlie moving around beside him, the rattle of cuffs and the rasp of a zipper and something that sounded like he was wiping at the mess on his shirt.

"Here," Charlie murmured, "Come on, put your shirt on, you'll get cold."

Don sat up and took his shirt from Charlie's hands, and then forced himself up to his feet. His holster was hanging on the knob of the bathroom door, and he picked it up and shut off the light, making his way back to Charlie in the darkness. Even the crack of light was gone, now, and when he thought he was close he stopped and said, "Charlie?"

"Here."

Don walked the last steps, kneeling to take the Sig from the holster and lay everything down at the side of the mattress where he'd be able to reach it easily. Charlie's hand was on his arm by the time he'd positioned the gun to his satisfaction, tugging him down, and Don squeezed onto the mattress beside him.