Charlie blinked a few times, but the darkness was equal under all conditions. His back was against the wall, but he was only a little cold. He could feel the heat of Don's body, not quite touching his. Charlie kept still, listening for Don's breathing, and he could barely hear it. There were other sounds, though, further away--footsteps and muffled thuds. Moving day.
Charlie flexed his fingers and then his wrists, testing the adhesion of the bandages and the limits of the cuffs. The metal clicked quietly, and he heard the small answering sound of Don moving, felt the mattress give as he shifted his weight. Charlie reached out slowly until his fingers were stopped by Don's body, nearly at arm's length, and Don said softly, "Right here, genius."
There was a faint rasp in his voice that reminded Charlie sharply of the night before--or whatever that had been, exactly, the time before they'd lain down to sleep, Don's arm draping familiar and heavy over him.
Charlie smiled slightly in the dark, and flattened his palms against the warmth of Don's body through his shirt--the small of his back, Charlie thought. Don was sitting up on the mattress, facing away. He didn't say anything else, but he didn't flinch from Charlie's touch.
The sounds from outside the room continued. When he concentrated, Charlie thought he could make out the murmur of voices. Then Don's hand closed around his right wrist and tugged, and Don said, "Heads up."
Charlie let Don help him up to a sitting position and settled on the edge of the mattress, his knees drawn up and his hands hanging between them. Don was silent and motionless beside him, a presence as solid as the walls. Charlie listened to the muffled footsteps approaching the door, and the first thing he noticed, when the door opened and the lights came on, was that Don was sitting beside him with his knees drawn up and his hands hanging between them.
That pose broke almost immediately. Don flattened his hands on his knees and stood up, moving between Charlie and the door. Past Don's knees, Charlie saw Skip coming in, carrying one end of a plastic-wrapped blackboard. He thought about standing up, but the other end of the blackboard was in Randy's hands. Charlie shivered as Randy stepped inside, and Don's stance widened as though he'd sensed it, shifting to keep himself firmly between Charlie and the two men. They set the blackboard down against the wall to Charlie's left and went back out without a word or a look in Charlie's direction, leaving the door open. They were barely gone before another blackboard was carried in, by men whose names Charlie didn't know.
When those two left, Skip and Randy were back with the next board, and then the other two came back with the next, and then Charlie was on his feet, because Williamson had walked in on their heels. Charlie raised his hands to Don's back, looking over Don's shoulder at Williamson. He touched leather--Don had put his shoulder holster back on--for an instant before Don took a half-step forward. Charlie dropped his hands and followed, his eyes on Williamson, who looked around the room as though he hadn't even noticed them standing there, just like the others. Williamson had his hands in his jeans pockets, and something red tucked under his arm: his blanket, Charlie realized, with a sick lurch of his stomach.
Don reached back and closed his hand around Charlie's wrist. His right wrist, Charlie noticed. Williamson always grabbed his left. Don towed him across the room to where Williamson stood, just far enough from the door to be out of the way of the men coming and going. Don kept himself between Charlie and the door, between Charlie and Williamson.
He didn't let go of Charlie's wrist, but once they'd reached Williamson Don seemed to be at a loss. Williamson didn't look at them, and Don didn't speak. As the impasse extended, one second after another, Charlie felt the palm of Don's hand heating against his skin. Don's fingers tightened, just for an instant.
Charlie glanced at Don's face, catching the brief clench of his jaw, and then the deliberate blanking of all expression. He remembered, in too-bright, sharp-edged fragments, being outside with Don, being trapped between Don and Williamson, in the path of sizzling anger that had seemed as naked and bright as weapons drawn. Part of that perception had probably been the drugs, but Don wasn't speaking now, keeping so carefully still.
It was up to Charlie. He took a breath, shook off Don's grip, and seized the moment between one set of men leaving and the next arriving.
"May I have that blanket, please?"
No possessives to Williamson, because Williamson didn't consider that Know-Nothing owned anything; politeness, because Williamson was frequently amused by it.
He seemed amused by it now. He turned his head and smiled, and though Charlie was watching as closely as he could from the corner of his eye, he detected no response from Don. He was holding steady.
"If you want it," Williamson said, but made no move to give it to Charlie.
Charlie didn't hesitate, not to touch Don or gather a last breath for courage. He stepped around Don and extended his hands, bound and bandaged, palms up to Williamson. Charlie tried to keep his hands steady; Williamson seemed to be looking at them. Skip came back in, carrying Don's duffle bag and a paper bag. Williamson's eyes flicked up to Charlie's face, and Charlie gritted his teeth and kept still, shaking hands extended, as Randy walked in carrying two sleeping bags, neatly rolled up. He walked around them, behind Charlie, his steps silent. Charlie tried not to think about not knowing where Randy was. He knew where Williamson was, and right now that was all that mattered.
Williamson's gaze shifted to Don. "You think he's going to keep all his fingers, Mac?"
Don said, "Yeah," in a clipped tone.
Charlie could have looked Don full in the face, from where he stood, but he didn't look. He remembered the word gangrene and the conviction that his fingers were going numb, rotting off. He flexed them, a brief irresistible twitch, but it was enough to draw Williamson's attention back to him.
"Here," Williamson said, and thrust the blanket into the circle of Charlie's arms, forcing him to draw in his hands to hold it. It was neatly folded and clean, and smelled like laundry detergent--different from whatever Don had used to wash their clothes before this. Charlie's nose itched, but he kept still, his head down. Williamson grabbed his left wrist and Charlie jerked involuntarily, looking up and meeting Williamson's eyes.
"Hey," Williamson said, and Charlie could see the key in his other hand in the instant before his fingers closed over it. "If you don't want them off, you don't have to have them off. You guys have some games you want to play, whatever..."
Randy and Skip walked out as Williamson spoke; they had to have heard. Charlie could feel himself blushing, his stomach turning at the thought that Williamson knew, or could guess, what they'd done in this room before they slept. If he looked at Don--if Don looked at him--Don would say something angry and protective, and the key would go back in Williamson's pocket.
Charlie whispered, "Please."
Williamson smiled. "Well, aren't we little Mr. Manners today."
Williamson leaned in, looming over Charlie, and Charlie dropped his gaze, ducking his head but keeping his hands as steady as he could. Williamson twisted Charlie's wrist, just enough to send a dull, threatening twinge through his elbow, and slipped the key into the cuffs with a metallic click. Charlie let his eyes close as the cuff on his left wrist opened, and opened them again when the metal dropped away from his right. Williamson pocketed the cuffs and glanced around the room, dismissing Charlie from his attention. Charlie gingerly hugged the blanket to himself, and then one of the men walked in, carrying a toolbox. Williamson nodded to the new guy and walked out.
As soon as he'd cleared the threshold, Don's hand was on Charlie's back. When Charlie looked over at him, Don was looking past him, his face a tightly controlled blank. His other hand landed on Charlie's left shoulder, and Don didn't say a word, just turned Charlie to the right, toward an open doorway--a bathroom, Charlie realized. It was where the light had been coming from last night, when they...
Charlie didn't let himself look back at Don again, not with the other men in the room. Don walked him as far into the bathroom as they could go--there was a tub and shower at the back of the room, and Charlie stopped short, eyeing it. There was no curtain, just the bare white space and the dim shine of the faucet in the light from the room behind them. Don's hands tugged at him, and Charlie turned to face Don, standing as always between Charlie and the door.
"Gimme that," Don said, very quietly.
He reached for the blanket, his hands hovering over it, but he didn't take it from Charlie's grasp. Charlie looked up at Don, searching his eyes, but the light was behind him and Charlie wasn't sure what he was seeing. Don gave him a quick, bleak smile and beckoned with his fingers.
"Give it here a second, genius."
Charlie gave him the blanket. Don shook it out of its folds between them, and Charlie wrinkled his nose again as the unfamiliar detergent smell rose up. Don barely let it hang straight for a second before he was crumpling it up, compacting it into an untidy ball between his hands. Charlie watched the motion of Don's hands against the red cloth, muted in the dim light, and then Don put his hands behind his back and murmured, "Close your eyes."
Charlie met his eyes again, startled, and tried to look over his shoulder, to see where the men were on the other side of the open doorway. Just then he heard a drill start up, and Don stepped closer, set a hand on the back of Charlie's neck and whispered in his ear, "Charlie, close your eyes for me."
His eyes fluttered half-shut when he felt Don's breath on his cheek--not quite a kiss, not quite a touch--and closed as Don's hand dropped from the back of his neck. He grabbed the front of Don's shirt as Don whispered against his ear, "I brought you something."
Charlie shivered a little, turning his face into the touch of the blanket against his cheek. He opened his eyes and leaned up to kiss Don lightly as Don wrapped it around him.
"Okay," Don murmured, lifting his head far enough to break the kiss. "Okay. Sit down. You'll be back to work soon."
Charlie nodded, looking down at his fingers and forcing them to detach from Don's shirt. He used them to hold his blanket--his blanket, that Don had given to him--around himself instead, and sat down on the floor, drawing his knees up close to his chest. Don sat down beside him and tucked the end of the blanket over Charlie's feet, and Charlie stared at the floor and listened to the sound of the blackboards being bolted into place.
Don was on his feet as soon as he registered one of the men outside moving toward the bathroom. It was Skip, bottles of water in one hand and energy bars in the other, and Don was suddenly starving. He glanced at his watch; it was four-thirty. His eyes went to the crack on the wall where the light had shone through, but it was covered by a chalkboard now. There had been light outside when they entered the house, bright sunshine, but he couldn't say from what angle. If the window in the kitchen faced east, west, or south, if it had been morning or afternoon or midday--he had no idea how much time had passed in the van, how long he'd stood in the dark before Charlie woke--how long they'd been sleeping, after--
"PM," Skip said, very quietly, glancing at Don's face as he handed over the food and water, and Don took it, nodding what he thought would pass for thanks. As he turned back toward where Charlie sat, he wondered how he could guess whether that was true or not, and whether it mattered. Don handed Charlie one bottle of water and one energy bar and wondered how worried he should be that he'd let Skip read him that clearly. That one was easy, he thought. Very.
He was watching Charlie's face, and Charlie was looking toward Don's watch even as he ripped the foil off the energy bar. Charlie bit off almost half and started chewing, and Don kept watching to make sure he didn't choke, leaving his own untouched for now.
"It's four-thirty," he said quietly, to the question in Charlie's eyes, and because one of them might as well have the luxury of certainty, he didn't hesitate before adding, "PM, on the thirtieth. It's been twelve hours."
Charlie nodded his comprehension as he raised the bottle of water to his mouth, and Don kept watching him, waiting for him to choke, to start shaking again. Charlie just looked like he needed a shave. He flinched at the skid-thudding sound of a bolt being stripped every time it came from outside, but the constant noise of drilling didn't seem to bother him, and even his flinches didn't stop him from chewing. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it. He didn't even know how scared he was.
Charlie swallowed and raised an eyebrow as he looked up at Don. "If you're going to pretend you're not hungry and try to feed me that, I'm going to sit on you and shove it down your throat."
Don was startled into a smile. "Yeah? I'd like to see you try."
Charlie took another sip of water and said, "Just keep doing what you're doing, then."
He smiled as he said it, and there was a warm glint in his eyes that wasn't just the light shining in over Don's shoulder. Don looked away all at once, setting his water down on the sink, and swallowing hard as he glanced out at the larger room. He couldn't think about Charlie's eyes, not now. Randy was out there, using a box cutter to slit the plastic wrapping on one of the chalkboards already mounted on the wall. Don widened his stance a little, glancing back down at Charlie to see that he was still all right.
Charlie was watching him intently, not chewing at all now, and Don forced the smile that had been so natural half a minute before. He raised the energy bar and opened it.
"There," he said, "no need for violence."
Charlie's lips quirked up at that--not really a smile--and Don looked away again as he took a bite. Charlie was all right for now, and Charlie would go on being all right for a little while. Don stepped into the doorway and leaned there, watching the men work, keeping himself firmly between them and Charlie.
This room was a little smaller than the basement space had been. They'd put up chalkboards on all four walls: one immediately to his left where he stood in the bathroom doorway, three on the long wall, across from the door from the hallway, two on the wall opposite where he stood. They were putting up the last one on the interior wall as he watched, and Randy and Skip were tearing the plastic off the ones already up. The mattress had been propped against the wall between the last chalkboard and the door, and two bedrolls, Don's duffle, and a familiar battered paper bag were arrayed around it.
The door to the hall was standing open, and no one was between him and it on a straight line, but all four of them were wearing guns on their hips, and Don could feel Randy watching him. He'd never get Charlie out the door now; at best he'd get himself shot. Williamson would replace him with Randy, and Charlie would be locked up with a sociopath, all day every day, until he was too scared to work and broke under the strain.
Don gritted his teeth and looked away from the open door, back at Charlie. He was slowly and methodically peeling all the gauze and tape off his fingers, piling it up on the edge of the tub in neat, tape-wrapped lumps. The light wasn't great, but Don couldn't see any blood. They'd only been scratches, really. Charlie's hands were fine.
The drill went suddenly silent, and Don looked up to see that the last board was in place. Skip was just hooking the work light on the corner. There was a brief flurry of motion in the center of the room as the two card tables were set up, and someone brought in a banker's box and took out a stack of papers, the boxes of chalk and Charlie's mechanical pencil, and the rag he used as an eraser. They were all laid out on the tables, and then the last man left the room, shutting and locking and barring the door behind him.
Don stood there blinking for a moment at the room--it looked eerily exactly the same, except that the orientation of the boards was off, in order but forced onto different walls by the smaller dimensions of the room. He'd have said he didn't know what was on any of them, but he knew the big grid should be next to the lines of equations starting with sigmas, not around the corner from it.
Don didn't hear anything before he felt a touch on the small of his back, and then Charlie said against the back of his neck, "Back to work, huh?"
Don stepped quickly away from him, through the door and out into the room.
"Yeah," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, not looking at Charlie. "Game on."
Charlie picked up a piece of chalk, rolling it between his fingers as he paced along his chalkboards. They'd put them all up in the right order, as they always did and as he always suspected they wouldn't. There were a few travel smudges, and he carefully wrote in whatever had been obscured on his own work, though he left the chess board for Don to repair.
By the time he'd made a circuit of the room his brain had clicked back into the track of his work as though the whole day had been just a bad dream before waking--as though he'd only just woken up beside Don and started toward the chalkboard for the morning. He rocked on his heels in front of chalkboard six, enjoying the novel sensation of carpeting under his feet and thinking that not all of the dream had been bad, and then he shook off the thought and the sensation and got to work.
Charlie was standing at blackboard four when he had to stop for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and letting his thought spool out as he swung his arms in wide arcs. His shoulders were sore; they got tense when he had to stay cuffed for a long time. It was strange to be able to pick out just that one sensation, to have cramped muscles not obscured by bruises or the bright-sharp pain of an abused joint. At that thought, he tried stretching both arms straight up above his head, extending them together until the moment when his left elbow protested and he had to drop it.
He looked around automatically as he cupped his sore elbow in his other hand. Don was standing on the opposite side of the room, between the outside door and the doorway to the bathroom, with his back to Charlie. The wall was oddly indented where he stood, a little hollow in the wall a couple of meters wide. As Charlie watched, Don turned slightly. He took a careful stride to put his face to the wall, measuring the space, and made an expressive gesture with his hands that Charlie understood instantly, gauging the angle to the door. In a moment he would turn and pace the other way, and see Charlie watching him. Charlie turned his face back to the board, staring at it without seeing.
He'd done it himself at times, what Don was doing back there--and Don was doing it quietly while Charlie worked, so that Charlie wouldn't see. Charlie had spent hours pacing around a succession of rooms, calculating angles, trajectories. Forces required. He'd spent a lot of that time trying to remember some line he half-remembered--something about a lever and moving the world. But he hadn't had a lever, or a fulcrum. He could know every angle and he still wasn't going anywhere. Now Don was making those same calculations, and it wasn't strange at all, wasn't surprising, even though Don was keeping it quiet. Don was locked in here just the same as he was.
Charlie scrubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead, frowning at the chalkboard. It should be strange. Don shouldn't have to calculate angles to get out of this room; he should only have to pick up his walkie-talkie and say he wanted the door opened. He couldn't. Charlie knew he couldn't: they were in this together. Williamson didn't treat Don like he treated the other men. He kept Don--he kept Mac--locked in here with Charlie, kept the two of them together. Between them, maybe they could find a lever, a fulcrum, and--
Charlie shook his head sharply. He had work to do. He couldn't be thinking about this, shouldn't be knowing this. He had work to do, and no time to be staring into space thinking strange thoughts just because Don was bored enough to wander around staring at the walls.
He started writing, leading with his hand and dragging his thoughts behind the laborious calculation until his brain was fully engaged and his writing was no more than quick notation. He paced all over the room, miscuing repeatedly due to the boards being shifted around the walls. He had to stop and change direction in mid-stride over and over, and each time he did he caught a glimpse of Don. He didn't give it any thought; the knowledge of where Don was just crept in on him gradually, half-consciously perceived. When he reached the end of a train of thought and looked around, it struck him that Don had been right there--sitting on the floor by the mattress, his knees drawn up, his hands hanging loose at just that angle--for a long time now.
Charlie set down his chalk, brushed his hands against his pants, and went over to Don. Don didn't look up, didn't move. When Charlie knelt beside him he could see that Don's eyelids were ever so slightly parted. He wasn't quite asleep, or at least his eyes hadn't given up the fight.
"Don," Charlie said, very softly, and Don's eyes widened slowly, and he looked over at Charlie. Charlie tilted his head, reaching out and touching Don's wrist to tilt the face of Don's watch toward himself.
"It's one in the morning," Charlie said. "Go to sleep."
"Yeah," Don said, blinking his eyes wide, glancing around the room. "No, I'm awake."
Charlie rolled his eyes. "Go to sleep, Don. Come on. There's a mattress and everything."
Don's eyes flicked up and met his for just a second, and then Don looked away again. Charlie could see the tension in his jaw, in the line of his throat and his shoulder.
"That's yours," Don muttered.
Charlie rubbed his eyes, but the tension didn't disappear from Don's body at a second glance. He kept his own voice soft.
"I like to share. Lie down."
Don opened his mouth to protest, and Charlie stood up and grabbed one of the sleeping bags, untying it and shaking it out.
"I'm not ready to sleep yet, I have a little more work to do. If I want you to move, I'll wake you up, okay?"
Don was on his feet almost as soon as Charlie was, at first just staring at him and then picking up the other sleeping bag and unzipping it. Charlie tossed his sleeping bag down on the mattress, flannel side up, and then looked around.
"Your blanket's in the bathroom," Don muttered. "I'll get it."
Charlie nodded, glancing back toward the boards. With the work on blackboard five, blackboard one slotted abruptly into place. The whole shape of the job was coming together now, tantalizingly close to completion. Charlie was vaguely aware of Don walking away as he headed back to work.
A while later he realized he'd heard the water turn on and then shut off in the bathroom and looked around. Don was lying on the mattress face up with Charlie's blanket tucked against his side under one arm. He had his other arm thrown across his face, and he'd taken off his boots and his holster. His feet were bare, and the gun was lying beside the mattress, close to his right hand.
Charlie smiled and went back to work, but every glimpse of bright red in his peripheral vision pulled his mind away from the boards to Don, lying there across the room. Every time he turned away from the boards to make a note on paper, he was looking at Don, sleeping so deeply he never moved an inch. Charlie's periods of work got shorter, and the periods spent staring across the room longer, until even the allure of a job nearing its end couldn't keep him from watching Don sleep.
It had been only hours since it had been him on that mattress, Don leaning over him. He'd been cuffed, unable to touch, unable to do anything but give directions, but now his hands were free, unbound and unbandaged. Charlie set down the chalk without another thought or a backward glance at the boards.
He crossed the room in quick strides to sink to his knees beside the mattress, carefully to one side of where Don had left his gun.
Kneeling over Don, Charlie could see that his cheeks were pink and smooth; he'd shaved before going to sleep. Charlie rubbed a hand over his own face, prickly and itchy, and glanced toward the bathroom--but it would have to wait until Don was awake, and once Don was awake Charlie could think of better things to do with him than get a shave.
Don lay perfectly still, only his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Charlie set one hand on the mattress beside Don's right arm, and the other on the other side of his body. Slowly he shifted his weight onto his hands, leaning over Don, but Don still didn't move. There was a small mark on Don's throat: a tiny red bruise from where Charlie's cuffs had pinched him. Charlie leaned in slowly, carefully, watching what he could see of Don's face and the arm slung over his eyes, but Don showed no sign of waking. Charlie touched his lips to the mark, then licked it, and Don sighed and shifted under the touch.
Charlie raised his head quickly as Don lowered his arm, but Don's eyes were still closed, his breathing still even. He turned his head slightly, his face angled toward the wall--away from the overhead lights, which must have been bright against even his closed eyelids without the shield of his arm. Charlie leaned down again, pressing a kiss to the skin beside Don's eye.
Don didn't move at all this time, and Charlie smiled a little. He kissed the bridge of Don's nose, and then his cheek and the spot just under his ear, stupid places he'd wanted to touch and never quite dared. Don turned his head a little and Charlie moved instinctively, his lips brushing across Don's, familiar already, sending the same quick curl of heat through him as it had the first time. Don's mouth was soft under his, lips parting without resistance at the touch of Charlie's tongue, but Charlie broke the kiss after the first taste.
He looked down at Don for a moment, frowning as he tried to remember--there was something about kisses, kisses were supposed to wake people up, there was a... a song? Charlie shook his head, frustrated by that particularly useless (and clearly fallacious) fragment of information, as Don slept on beneath him. He raised a hand to Don's side and let it rest there, absorbing the heat of Don's skin through his shirt, riding the motion of his breathing, but the contact didn't wake Don any more than the kiss had. Charlie slid his hand up to Don's chest and shoved gently.
"Don."
Don made a low, throaty sound, still not awake, and it occurred to Charlie that it was late, and Don had been tired. He ran his hand over Don's chest again, and said more softly, "Don?"
Don opened his eyes, blinking up at Charlie without otherwise moving--it was strange to see Don not moving, not snapping straight to full awareness, not reaching for his gun.
"Charlie?" Don murmured, squinting up at him, his voice low and thick with sleep. "What are you--"
Charlie could see the moment when Don woke up, his eyes going wide as his mouth snapped shut on whatever he'd been about to ask, his whole body tensing. He pushed up onto one elbow under Charlie's hand, looking around as if there might be some threat he hadn't noticed in the room with them. His hand twitched out toward his gun, and Charlie could feel the sudden furious pounding of his heart.
"Sorry," Charlie said, watching Don's face as Don looked at everything in the room but him. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Don shook his head as he looked back at Charlie. There were lines around his eyes and on his forehead that hadn't been there while he slept, or in the instant just after he woke.
"I shouldn't sleep like that," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Too comfortable. I'll move, you should get some rest."
Charlie's hand was still on Don's chest, and he pushed gently, just enough to convey the idea of pushing, not enough to exert any real force.
"Don't."
Don's brows drew together, and he opened his mouth to argue, but Charlie leaned in and said, "No, I mean, I'll rest, but you don't have to move."
Don's frown melted into another expression, harder to read, and he shook his head slightly as he said, "Charlie..."
Charlie waited for more, but Don didn't seem to have any actual arguments prepared. Charlie leaned in and kissed him, and Don jerked back from the first touch but didn't push him away.
"Just let me," Charlie whispered.
He pressed his mouth to Don's again as lightly as he could, and he felt Don's shuddering breath escape as Don's mouth opened to his. Charlie let his weight rest harder against Don's chest, and Don settled back beneath him as Charlie followed him down, deepening the kiss. Don didn't respond at first, only allowing Charlie to kiss him, and Charlie accepted the challenge. He teased Don with quick flicks of his tongue, pulling away whenever Don started to move, until Don made a small frustrated sound, sucking at Charlie's tongue.
Charlie grinned into the kiss and shifted his weight, sliding the hand on Don's chest down to his belly as he licked deep into Don's mouth. Don was relaxed beneath him, resting on the mattress as Charlie curled down over him, but the instant Charlie slid his fingers under the hem of Don's shirt to touch bare skin, he felt Don's whole body go tense. The muscles under Charlie's hand went hard, and Don yanked himself out of the kiss, turning his face away sharply.
"Charlie," he said raggedly, "please--"
Charlie felt an instant's sharp, furious frustration, but at the same moment he realized that Don was holding himself so still he was shaking with it, a faint frantic vibration under Charlie's fingertips. Charlie shut his eyes for a second, trying to redirect blood from his hard-on to his brain.
He said as gently as he could, "I want to, and you want to."
That much had been obvious just from the kiss, to say nothing of the agonized way Don was holding himself back.
Charlie leaned down slowly, touching his lips lightly to Don's cheekbone; he could feel the quick flutter of Don's eyelashes against his mouth. He could feel the fever-heat of Don's skin.
"And we're both alive, and we can. Isn't that a good enough reason?"
Don made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. "Is that supposed to be logic?"
Charlie smiled again, and let his lips slide down Don's cheek to the pulse point high on his throat. "No, but I can write you a proof later if that's what you're into."
"No," Don said breathlessly, but Charlie shivered at the light brush of Don's fingers against his wrist, not pushing him away. "Geometry was never really..."
Charlie pressed a slow wet kiss to Don's throat, just for knowing to associate proofs with geometry, just for raising his fingers to touch. He felt Don swallow as his words trailed off.
"Okay," Charlie said, and then forced himself to pull back. He knelt up to take his shirt off, tossing sweater and t-shirt away with a thump.
Every inch of his skin tightened at the touch of cool air, hair standing up, his nipples going almost painfully hard. His dick throbbed in anticipation. Don lay still on the mattress, watching, his eyes dark and intent, but not meeting Charlie's.
"Your turn," Charlie said, bracing himself for more argument, but Don seemed to have given in for good.
He sat up and pulled his t-shirt off without further comment, though he still didn't meet Charlie's gaze. Charlie's hands were drawn irresistibly to his bare shoulders, smooth and muscular, the left one marked with an old, faded scar on the back. Charlie settled to sit on the edge of the mattress, leaning in to kiss that spot on Don's shoulder, and Don shivered at the touch. Charlie would have stopped, but Don's arms came tentatively around him, looping loosely around his hips. Charlie converted the kiss to a slow lick across Don's collarbone, and was rewarded by the reflexive curl of Don's fingers against the small of his back.
Charlie shuddered at the quick, light touch of Don's fingernails on his skin, the sensation going straight to his cock. His hips jerked forward as his balls tightened, and he ducked his head as Don's hands went flat at the small of his back. His first lick missed--chest hair, warm as the skin beneath, dry under his tongue--and his second hit bare, crinkled skin. Don made a weird, startled sound and his whole body jerked around Charlie's. Charlie closed his teeth lightly on Don's nipple, then licked again, then just breathed over it, until Don's fingers were digging into the skin just above Charlie's jeans, and Don's breath was quick and ragged.
Charlie pushed backward, and Don let go of him instantly, dropping his hands to his sides, making no effort to keep Charlie close. Charlie had to lean in and kiss him, just a quick touch for reassurance as he moved to kneel over Don, straddling him. His hands found Don's belt buckle easily, and Don made a soft sound as Charlie started to unfasten it. Charlie felt Don's hands moving again, Don's fingers brushing his belly on the way to his jeans, reaching out to reciprocate.
Charlie's dick twitched at the faint touch. He knew Don's hand already, and he wanted it. That rush of blood wanted it. He had other ideas, too, though, and he shifted as he fumbled Don's belt open, settling lower over Don's thighs. He felt Don's hand fall away and grinned as he got Don's jeans open and started to tug them down. Don's hand went flat on his side--the touch was hot, Don's skin sweating against his, and the slight damp friction made Charlie want more.
He leaned down and kissed Don again, wet and deep and slow, and Don pushed up into the kiss, his hand firm on Charlie's side, not quite pulling him down. Charlie settled his hand on Don's cock, still covered in the thin fabric of his jockeys, but he could feel the heat of Don's hard-on through it, the hard flesh jerking under his touch. Don's fingers curled against his skin, but Don didn't pull, didn't push, didn't ask. Charlie smiled into the kiss and pulled away, using both hands to get Don's jockeys off.
He couldn't take his eyes off Don's cock, even for the few seconds he hesitated before touching it, shoving Don's shorts down his thighs. Don kicked them the rest of the way off and Charlie closed his hand around Don's cock, hot and silky in his gip. Don gasped, and Charlie looked up, and this time Don met his eyes. Charlie couldn't read anything in his expression beyond an instant of surprise. He tightened his hand around Don's cock and Don let his breath out on a moan, his head falling back. Charlie kissed his Adam's apple. Don shuddered, his dick jerking in Charlie's hand, and Charlie had to look down again.
His hand was pale around the blood-dark head of Don's cock, and he stroked up and down slowly, watching, learning Don's body. When Charlie loosened his grip, Don held his breath, and when Charlie trailed a single fingertip up the underside of his cock, from base to crown, Don's hips jerked helplessly. Charlie closed his hand again, stroking firmly as he shifted his weight so that he could lean lower over Don's lap, hesitating for a moment to breathe in the smell of him, hot and musky and going straight to Charlie's dick. Charlie licked his lip and started to lower his head, and suddenly Don's hand was hard on his shoulder, fingers digging in painfully, pushing him back.
Charlie could feel his mouth hanging open as he looked up at Don, and he almost looked behind himself, to see whether the door had opened, to see why on earth Don had made him stop. But one look at Don's face told him: Don was biting his lower lip, the skin gone white from the pressure, and when Charlie met his eyes he shook his head slightly.
"Charlie," he whispered, his voice strangled and desperate, and his lips stayed parted though no more words escaped as he shook his head again. His grip on Charlie's shoulder didn't slacken, but he wasn't pushing Charlie away anymore, just holding on.
Charlie knew he could ignore that silent no--he let his hand trail up Don's cock, stroking his thumb across the head and finding it wet, and Don shuddered and closed his eyes. Charlie could do what he liked, could take Don into his mouth and make him forget how to argue. He could do anything, and the mere idea of that power was dizzying, his balls tightening, his breath rushing too shallowly. He tipped forward, his shoulder striking Don's, twisting to find Don's mouth with his own.
"Shh," Charlie breathed against Don's mouth, licking his bitten lip, "Shh, I won't--"
Don gasped in his words and his breath, falling back flat on the mattress as his hips bucked. Charlie fell with him, half on top, his mouth skidding across Don's cheek as his hand kept moving on Don's cock. Don's hand came up to curl around the back of Charlie's neck without force, resting like it belonged there as Don arched beneath him, swearing breathlessly as he came all over Charlie's stomach.
Charlie was still stroking him--Don still had his eyes closed--as Don hooked his fingers into Charlie's jeans, undoing them in quick, jerky motions. Charlie let go and shifted onto his side to make it easier, and Don followed, tilting onto his side, facing Charlie. Don's head was down as he undid Charlie's pants--maybe just watching his hands, but maybe--
It flashed rapidly through Charlie's mind: a perverse determination not to let Don carry out some kind of oral sex double standard, followed by the vivid memory of that sensation, of Don's mouth, wet and hot and on his dick. Don's hand slid into the open front of his pants, cupping him through his boxers. Charlie thought that he could probably get Don to let him do it the next time--and his brain seized up on the idea of next time, of next times, of virtually unlimited repeatability, and he came at the barest brush of Don's fingertips against the head of his cock. Don's hand closing around him was almost too much. Charlie heard himself make a high, broken, breathless sound, and Don's second stroke was wetter, his own semen slicking Charlie's skin.
Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face against the mattress until Don's hand slid out of his boxers. Even the touch of the cloth against his skin was jarring; he squirmed, but couldn't get away from it, and Don wasn't making a sound. Charlie took a breath and lifted his head.
Don was watching him. His lips were parted, and his eyes were--Don's eyes were laughing. Charlie couldn't help but grin, and Don said, "Well, that was easy."
Charlie tried to glare, all but holding his breath to keep from laughing out loud, and Don's eyes slid away from his, a little submerged smile flickering at his mouth. Charlie caught his breath as Don's hand slid into his pants again, but Don just wiped his hand on Charlie's hip, adding to the mess of his boxers. Charlie kept watching Don's face as Don took his hand away, letting it rest in the tight space between them. They had both almost caught their breath, and Charlie could feel the come on his skin going cold. The flush was fading from Don's cheeks, and in a moment the happiness would fade from his eyes. Charlie didn't want to see that part.
He pushed himself up to sit, and said as lightly as he could manage, "I should clean up."
Don nodded in Charlie's peripheral vision, and Charlie watched his legs--naked, hairy and muscular, one knee scarred--swing out of the way as Don sat up, making room for Charlie to squirm past. Charlie headed into the bathroom, trying to remember whether he even had a clean pair of boxers, and stopped short.
Don had found a curtain somewhere, apparently, because the shower was covered now. The plastic curtain had a pattern of polka dots, different sizes and colors, and Charlie stood a moment, absorbing the pattern, then shook himself and turned away. His other clothes were folded on the back of the toilet, and there was a washcloth, also folded, at the edge of the sink. It was cool, slightly damp, when Charlie touched it. Don must have used it when he washed up earlier, and left it out for Charlie, as he'd left Charlie's clothes, and the curtain.
Charlie dropped his jeans and peeled his boxers off, tossing them into the sink to rinse as he ran water onto the washcloth. He stood scrubbing at his stomach, shifting from foot to foot on the cold bathroom tile. His field of vision narrowed to his own hands, his own skin, and the damp white washcloth, and in the swinging instant between one foot and the other, he experienced a sense of certainty.
It was a feeling he knew from his work. It was the point in time--before computation or calculation--the point when he knew how a thing was supposed to work. This, he thought, with absolute certainty, this is how it's supposed to be. Dancing on a chilly floor before heading back into the carpeted room, back to a bed warmed by someone else's body. Don's body. The glow of sex and a vague sleepiness and the irritation of his chest hair sticking together and the bathroom light too bright for his tired eyes, this was all exactly right, all the way it worked. This had to be what real people's lives were like, what real life was like. And it could stay like this for him and Don, if--
Charlie shook his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut against the light and throwing the washcloth into the sink. He wrung it out, then reached into the water for his boxers, scrubbing at them where he thought they needed it and then wringing them out as well. He stared around him for a moment and then tossed the wet shorts over the shower curtain rod. They slid off and landed with a wet splat on the other side, and from outside the door Don called, "Charlie?"
Charlie stood wavering for a second, debating whether to go after them, and then shrugged and turned away, switching the bathroom light off and stepping into the larger room. Don was watching for him when he came through the doorway, sitting on the end of the mattress. He was already completely dressed again, his hands on the laces of his left boot, and Charlie hesitated in the doorway, pinned by Don's watchfulness. Something relaxed in Don's face--not a smile, but something easier than that first wary gaze--and Don raised a hand, beckoning Charlie closer.
"Come on. It's okay."
Don stood up as Charlie reached the mattress, and Charlie hesitated again, but Don touched his shoulder, propelling him gently forward.
"Lie down," he said. "Back to the wall."
Charlie tugged the sleeping bags around and lay down with his back to the wall, pillowing his head on his arm and watching Don's back as he finished tying his boots. He stood when he was done, walking briskly away, and Charlie shut his eyes, only to open them when the world went dark. Don had shut off the light, he realized, listening to the muffled sound of his footsteps returning.
Charlie pressed himself close to the wall as Don lay down. He reached out in the blackness to find that Don's back was to him, and that Don didn't pull away from his touch. Charlie scooted forward, leaving a space between their bodies but touching his forehead to the back of Don's neck, just at the edge of his t-shirt collar. Don didn't reach for him, or move closer, but he tipped his head back just a little, and Charlie smiled in the dark.
The bathroom tile was cool under Don's cheek, and conducted sound much better than the carpeted floor outside. He could hear voices in the room below them distinctly. He could also hear gunfire, and the car chase, and he'd identified the movie long before Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker, so there was really no tactical advantage to staying where he was.
He kind of liked Die Hard, though, and there was no tactical advantage to not staying where he was, either. He had his head at the threshold, his eyes toward the other door, his gun out on the tile beside his hand. He only had to lift his head to see Charlie, no matter where he was in the room, and he could track him without looking by the tapping of chalk. Every time he flicked his gaze toward some sign of movement, his eyes caught on the mattress, with its rumpled pile of sleeping bags.
Last night made three times, and took with it the last shred of anything like justification for what he was doing to Charlie. If he couldn't say no to Charlie like that--two minutes after he'd woken up thinking he was in his parents' house, Charlie coming to get him for some reason--then he was never going to say no to Charlie at all. This wasn't sheerly circumstantial anymore: this was him, now, as much as the murder he'd committed in Chicago, the men he'd killed on the road. There would be no going back from this. If he and Charlie both made it out of here alive...
There was a crashing sound from downstairs, snatching Don's attention back, and Don's hand was on his gun in the same instant he recognized the climax of the movie. He lifted his head to find Charlie scribbling away at the blackboard directly beside the bathroom door, frowning, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Don licked his own lip, and felt a second of nothing but wanting Charlie before the inevitable recoil hit like a gut-punch. Last night Charlie had nearly gone down on him, and that thought still turned his stomach, but his dick remembered how it had ended. Don brought his hand down on the gun and pushed up, letting his weight press his skin painfully against the trigger guard, anything to remind him that this was a bad idea.
His eyes were still on Charlie as that suddenly ceased to be a problem. They both heard the door being unbarred, and less than three hours had passed since breakfast had been tossed through. Charlie froze, looking to the door and then to Don, and Don was on his feet at once, stepping out to stand between Charlie and whoever was coming in.
Williamson, naturally, with Skip behind him. Skip stayed in the doorway, and Don stood his own ground. He could hear Charlie keeping very still behind him. Williamson walked in, stopping a stride short of Don, and looked around the room: the chalkboards, the drift of papers on the table, the mattress, none of it seeming to catch his eye longer than anything else.
Don took that instant to steal a glance back at Charlie. He spotted Charlie's eyes going suddenly wide on one side at the same time as the flash of motion on the other, so he whipped his head around right into Williamson's fist, smashing squarely into his right eye. His head snapped back, and it took as much effort to keep his gun hand down as it did to keep his feet. He swayed for a dizzy instant. His left hand was clenched into a white-knuckled fist, the gun pressed hard against his thigh, and then he had his head up and his gaze steady on Williamson's face.
Williamson was watching him right back, with no particular expression on his face. He wasn't angry. He might have hit Don--and done it in front of both Charlie and one of the other men--to punish him, or maybe just because he could. Either way, he was waiting to see what Don would do next, and there were two of them against one of him. He had to think of Charlie. Don could feel his eye starting to swell, brow and cheekbone throbbing so hard he could barely think. He lowered his head a little, bending his neck, and kept his right hand down at his side, finger safe on the trigger guard.
Williamson turned back toward the door, and Don didn't look up. He saw Skip's feet come in. There was a crinkling plastic sound, and Don looked up as Williamson said, "Put some ice on that."
Don tried to catch the tossed ice pack, but he was clumsy and off-balance with only his left hand free. He fumbled it and wound up on his knees, swaying as he reached to pick it up. Charlie made a small, choked sound, and Don didn't dare look at him.
Above him, Williamson said, "Where are we at, Know-It-All?"
Don closed his hand around the burning-cold ice pack and kept still, waiting, listening as Charlie cleared his throat and audibly shuffled in a circle, surveying his work around the room. Don shut his eyes and prayed for Charlie to say something Williamson wanted to hear.
"I'm into computation now, actually," Charlie said, and his voice was unsteady but Don could breathe.
He took a few steps toward the center of the room, out from behind Don and into his left-side peripheral vision. Charlie sounded a little stronger as he said, "If you'd like to go over the specifics?"
Williamson said, "Yes. We're done, Skip."
Don waited until Williamson and Charlie were at the card table, until the door had closed behind Skip, before he holstered his gun and pulled himself up to his feet by the doorframe. He went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub with the ice on his right eye, watching over Charlie with his left, for what good it did anyone.
Charlie couldn't have said whether it was that he was so busy, or that Don was deliberately and skillfully avoiding him, but he didn't get a good look at Don's eye for hours after Williamson left. When he did, it took him by surprise. He glanced up after scribbling some figures on a sheet of paper--there was something counterintuitive in the specific values, the success intervals weren't shaking out the way he'd expected them to--and Don was standing by board seven, fixing the chess board, with his right side to Charlie.
The purple-black bruise extended from eyebrow to cheekbone, and his eye wasn't quite swelled shut. Charlie could see a line of it, lividly bloodshot, bright red in the darkness of the bruising. It made his stomach turn, and he leaned a little against the card table. He knew, logically, that it wasn't a terribly bad injury. He knew he'd had worse himself. It shouldn't have hurt like a physical thing to watch Williamson strike Don. It shouldn't have sickened him just as much to hear knuckles connect with Don's flesh as it did to hear a fist strike his own. It had been all he could do to stay on his feet when Don had dropped to his knees, and Williamson had been watching him--not Don, not once he knew Don wouldn't try to fight back. Williamson had been watching Charlie, to see what he would do. To see if he understood that this was for his benefit, and Charlie understood then exactly why Williamson would give Don back to him, knowing Charlie loved him.
There was a limit to how badly they could hurt Charlie, and expect him to keep working. There was no limit to how much they could hurt Don.
He hadn't been able to stop shaking until long after Williamson left, and then he'd been absorbed in his work (and if his progress wasn't good, if he couldn't nail down the success interval, what would Williamson do to Don tomorrow?) and meanwhile hours had gone by and now Don was fixing the chess board.
Charlie walked over to him--he had to swing around almost directly in front of Don before Don appeared to see him, but Charlie just smiled and went to stand close to him. Don smiled and then winced. Charlie felt his own smile fade.
"Did you take anything for that?"
He'd seen Don carrying the ice around until it had melted completely, and he knew Don had painkillers, because he'd given them to Charlie before, but somehow he wasn't surprised when Don shook his head.
"It's just a black eye, Charlie. No big deal."
Charlie frowned. "Would you say that if it were my black eye?"
Don's mouth went tight, his eyes flicking to the side--to the scar beside Charlie's eye--and Charlie said, "I know exactly how much it hurts, Don. I've been hit like that plenty of times. Exactly like that. If you've got something, take it."
Don turned away--turned his right side to Charlie, so he couldn't see him, so Charlie was left staring at Don's blackened eye--and went back to drawing in the pieces on the chess board in their starting positions.
"Last game, I won the right to two games," Charlie said after a moment. "What's your bet for the first game?"
Don smiled a little, just a twitch of his lips this time, and said, as he always did, "Scrabble. Yours?"
Charlie licked his lips. "If I win, you take a painkiller."
Don turned to stare at him, his good eye narrowed nearly as much as the bad.
"Before the second game," Charlie added, pressing his point, though his heart clenched with the fear that Don would just walk away from the game for this. "You won't be competitive if you're distracted."
Don studied him for a few seconds in silence, then turned back and picked up the white chalk. Charlie took a breath and picked up the blue.
"I wasn't aware that I was ever competitive."
"You're improving," Charlie temporized, and Don smiled more widely and made his first move.
Williamson ignored Don on his next couple of visits, only pressing Charlie for more results. Charlie handed them over each time, occasionally pointing to something and saying something like, "See, it's not working there," or "I have to get this one down somehow."
Williamson mostly just nodded or said, "Yes, you'd better."
Charlie didn't try to explain a single idea to Williamson. There were no elaborate analogies, no reference to the expressions scrawled all around the room. Don stayed out of the way, watching.
By the third visit he could open his right eye almost all the way, and the bruise around it had gone green at the edges. Williamson finished his inspection of Charlie's still-unfinished work, sounding a little more clipped than usual. Don could see Charlie's shoulders hunching in response, his hands moving faster through the papers, but Williamson turned away from him and looked at Don.
"Mac," he said. "Come with me."
Don saw Charlie freeze, and clenched his own jaw against the impulse to argue. Williamson looked at Charlie and smiled almost sweetly. He said in an exaggeratedly patient tone, "I'll bring him back, Know-Nothing. But you're going to work without distractions for a little while, and Mac is going to come with me. Now."
Don gave a shallow nod, and followed Williamson when he went to the door, not risking so much as a look back at Charlie. Williamson stopped in the hallway, and nodded to the door. Don shut it behind him, locked and barred it with the prickly sense of Williamson's gaze on the back of his neck. When he turned around, Williamson was already starting down the stairs, and Don followed.
Williamson led the way down the hall, through the kitchen and to the door to the garage. Don spotted Skip in the living room, two men in the kitchen and another in the family room--the tv was showing another action movie, one Don couldn't instantly identify--but Don didn't recognize anyone but Skip. He hadn't seen Sam or Jimmy since he and Charlie had been shut in the van, but there had been two people up front: he'd heard gunshots and bodies falling, but he hadn't looked.
Don kept his eyes on the back of Williamson's head now, as they walked out into the garage. It was cold, and Don's fingers twitched toward fists. He barely had time to wonder what had happened to his coat--he'd never bothered to put it on before they left, and it hadn't been among the things brought up to the room he and Charlie were kept in--before he spotted it hanging on a peg by the side door out of the garage. Williamson stopped and grabbed one of the other coats hanging there, shrugging into it and jerking his chin toward Don's.
"Put it on, it's chilly. You got gloves?"
Don stared at Williamson for a second and then forced himself to look away, shaking his head as he grabbed his coat and pulled it on. It was as cold as the air in the garage, but he buttoned it up and jammed his hands into the pockets as Williamson opened the door to the outside, and was immediately glad for the extra layer. The sky was a bright, grim white. Don squinted against the light--grimacing at the sharp twinge from his bruised eye--and followed Williamson toward the back of the garage, their footsteps crunching quietly on frozen ground. The trees came up pretty close to the house, and even when they reached the back there was nothing much to see. A stretch of open ground gave way to trees on every side, hemming them in.
There were no sounds of traffic. Presumably there was a road somewhere in front of the house, but Don hadn't caught sight of it, though he did risk looking around as Williamson led on. He could hear a bird calling somewhere distant, and then silence again.
Getting out of the house wouldn't be enough now; no thirty second run to even the dubious refuge of a neighboring house or a paved road. There was nothing and no one here so far as Don could see, but him and Williamson. They veered left across the short grass and into the trees, and Don felt a flash of déjà vu. If Williamson drew his gun and turned it on Don now--if Don drew his--they'd be back in those woods all over again, except Charlie was locked in that upstairs room, very much in the control of Williamson's men and waiting for Don to come back. Williamson wouldn't have brought him out alone like this without taking precautions; they probably weren't alone at all.
Don glanced around at the trees, wondering who might be watching. He'd seen four men inside the house, but there was no way of knowing how many Williamson had now. It wasn't worth the risk, not with Charlie so far out of his reach. He stared at the back of Williamson's neck, squeezing his arm against his holstered gun through his coat, and reminded himself of that: it wasn't worth trying. Not now.
They stepped out of the trees into another level field entirely surrounded by forest, with brittle grass up to Don's ankles. At the other end of the clearing was a ridge, covered with grass but too level and straight to be natural, and in front of that sturdy backstop were paper targets: three bullseyes and three human silhouettes.
Williamson stopped and turned to him, though the targets were a good hundred yards away, too far for handguns to be much use.
"That was a nice piece of shooting you did the other day," Williamson said.
Don eyed him carefully. Williamson might have seen the bodies, but the only time he'd seen Don with a gun in his hand, Don had been pointing it at him.
"I do my job," Don muttered, looking down the field.
"Yes," Williamson said. "And I'd like you to keep doing it proficiently, so from now on you'll have regular target practice."
He'd be separated from Charlie on a regular basis, then, and God knew what might happen to Charlie in his absence. But it would get him out of the house, get him these moments armed and seemingly alone with Williamson. If he could arrange something with Charlie beforehand--if Charlie realized this was an opportunity to exploit, if they could find a way to exploit it--this might give them an opening. This might be the break they needed in Williamson's perfect control.
Don nodded, and glanced sideways at Williamson. "From rifle range?"
Williamson smiled, showing a lot of teeth. "Well, point blank's not much of a challenge, is it?"
Don gritted his teeth and smiled back, then turned and strode down the field. He could hear Williamson coming after him. His crunching footsteps echoed Don's, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Forty yards from the targets, Don stopped, spread his feet into a steady stance, and pulled the Sig.
He'd never qualified beyond twenty-five yards, but he'd spent enough time in firearms pissing matches on the outdoor ranges in training and in empty stretches of desert with Coop, backing away and away and away from a target. He could make forty look good enough. Williamson kept walking for another step or two after Don stopped, planting himself just out of Don's peripheral vision over his right shoulder. Don didn't allow himself to hesitate, or to worry about whether his form would give him away. He was ten years out of the academy and fifteen yards of out range. He fired for the inside silhouette first, then the next to the right, and then the last, with three squeezes of his trigger finger and a smooth sweep of his arm.
The sound of the last shot was still dying away as Williamson said, "Weapon down and safety on."
Don had been lowering his arm anyway, but he flicked the safety on and repeated back, "Down and on."
Trust Williamson to be careful about range safety. Don heard a radio click on--of course Williamson was carrying one--and Williamson said, "Mark hits."
Randy popped up from behind the backstop, and in the cold quiet Don could hear the rattle of the spray paint can as he shook it. Red paint bloomed on the throat of the first target, low on the torso of the second, and off to the right of the third, at the edge of the target paper. Randy flashed a smirk at Don after very carefully marking the miss, then turned to scramble back up over the backstop.
"Move up," Williamson said. "Try thirty."
Don nodded and started moving up as Williamson said, "I'd have liked to do this sooner, but we were busy clearing the old house."
The old house, like they were a happy little family who'd had to move when Dad took a transfer out of state.
"Wouldn't want to leave anyone's toys behind," Don muttered, stopping to eyeball the distance.
Williamson stopped too, and said, "Well, I worry more about fingerprints. Silhouettes again, one each, center of mass."
Don squinted, pain flashing through his face, brought the Sig up and thumbed off the safety, and didn't think about fingerprints at all for the few seconds it took to fire three more times.
Every federal agent was in the database.
"Down and on," Williamson said, and Don lowered his gun slowly, pushing the safety back on and nodding. Williamson said, "Mark hits," into the radio and continued without pausing, "You'd be surprised where fingerprints turn up. I showed a few of the boys how to lift them, just so they'd know how careful they had to be."
Don stared at Randy, marking shots this time in blue--he'd hit the chest on the first and third targets, throat on the middle. Fingerprints. But a fingerprint was worthless without a database.
Williamson could lift a thousand, he still couldn't send them down to the lab to be run against AFIS.
Randy disappeared behind the backstop, and Williamson said, "Try the bullseyes at twenty five, three each, alternating."
Don nodded, and Williamson added, after three or four seconds, "Mac."
Don's head whipped around automatically, glaring. Asking what the hell that was supposed to mean would be going too far, but he stared at Williamson for a couple of seconds and then shook his head and walked five yards forward, Williamson dogging his heels. He had to be fishing for a reaction. It wasn't an unreasonable guess that a man in Mac's position wasn't working under the name he'd been born to. It didn't mean Williamson knew anything. It probably meant Williamson didn't. He couldn't possibly have cracked a federal fingerprint database. It couldn't possibly be worth it to him just to know who Mac really was.
Unless he didn't need fingerprints to tell him.
Safety off, steady stance, steady hands, nine shots in three sweeps, left to right to left to right, no wasted motion. Don's hands stung a little as he lowered the gun. He hadn't been on a range since he left LA, and he was out of practice.
Williamson said, "Mark hits," into the radio, and then stood in silence while Randy ran from one target to the next, marking them in blotches of red. Giving Mac time to think about fingerprints, maybe.
Don looked toward the trees without turning his head, thinking about anything but fingerprints just to spite him. Target practice every day, that was going to be the deal now--and if he really cared about his accuracy, he should practice with his primary and his backup, even if the backup was spending all its time buried in his duffle. Williamson had seen it the first day, so he knew perfectly well that Don had it, and he was bound to bring it up, make sure Don knew he hadn't forgotten. One of these days Williamson would tell him it was time to practice with the other gun. Until then, Don didn't think he needed to mention it.
He heard the faint static buzz of Williamson's radio activating, and a tinny voice said, "Boss."
"Go ahead," Williamson said, and Don forced himself to keep his eyes forward, tallying his hits. He seemed to have missed one of his shots on the middle target completely.
"Know-It-All's banging on the door. Yelling he's got it."
Don gritted his teeth and kept still, thinking about Charlie pounding on the door, trying to earn him back.
"Good," Williamson said. "Pound back and tell him to shut the hell up." He shut off the radio and added pleasantly, "We'll let him savor his accomplishment for a little while. Move up, Mac, I want to see what you do at fifteen yards."
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