Don froze, feeling like there was a sniper's sight on his chest. Like he'd already been shot.

In six months he'd seen a lot of people who looked a little bit like Charlie, reminded him of Charlie somehow. He'd chased a twenty-three-year-old bail-jumper all the way to Nebraska because the kid had curly hair and a degree in Math. And he'd thought he saw Charlie, dozens of times, hundreds of times, a flash in the corner of his eye, a half-imagined glimpse. Three weeks ago there had been the phone call, the phone call, just four words, Terry's voice, "He's doing all right." It had stopped him dead, grief and relief and shock all at once.

None of it had been anything like this. Charlie was standing across the street from him, maybe two hundred feet away, staring back. Charlie, actually Charlie, the recognition instantaneous and certain. Don would know his brother anywhere.

Charlie moved first--something slipped out of his grasp and he bent to chase it as it bounced and rolled across the parking lot of the gas station. Don snapped back into focus, looking around: Charlie was here, hanging around in the Cass Corridor on a hot summer night. He looked for what Charlie was driving, and his eye caught instantly on the shiny-new car parked in the corner of the gas station's lot: a gleaming Prius with California plates, an engraved invitation to any two-bit thug with a slim jim.

"God dammit, Charlie," Don muttered, and ran for his own truck, a dusty, dented Chevy, local from bumper to bumper.

He heard Charlie shout--not a name, just a sound, Charlie's voice hitting him like a punch to the gut. Don unlocked his truck and started it up, gunning across the intersection to where Charlie's car was parked. He pulled up in front of it, parking to block the view of Charlie's car from the street, killed the engine and jumped out.

Charlie was standing there at the driver's side of his car, keys in hand, like he'd been about to jump in and chase Don through the streets of Detroit. Don glanced away, unable to really look at Charlie for a second. The bottle of pop Charlie had dropped was lying on the concrete, and there was a bag of beef jerky on the ground by the door. Khalid, the night clerk, was watching them through the bulletproof glass. Don waved, and Khalid nodded and looked carefully away.

Don ran a hand over his face and looked back at Charlie, who'd stuffed his hands into his pockets and started edging around the front of his car, toward Don. Don slammed the door of his truck and stood his ground, shaking his head. "You have to get out of here. This isn't safe."

Charlie shook his head, curls flying, and Don's stomach lurched again, because it was Charlie, here, where he shouldn't ever have been, but--it was Charlie. After all this time. Here, looking for him. "It's fine, nobody followed me--"

"I'm not talking about people following you--I'm not talking about me." Don waved his hand in frustration from Charlie to the car. "I'm talking about how an out-of-towner driving that car in this neighborhood at night is just begging to get car-jacked if not murdered, and I'd consider it a favor if you tried not to get yourself killed for a while, okay?"

From the way Charlie flinched back a step, Don guessed he'd crossed the line from loud to shouting, and he rubbed one hand over his mouth.

"I just want to talk to you," Charlie said, shrugging his shoulders, hands still in pockets, looking small and diffident.

"Yeah, that's great," Don snapped, trying to take in all the angles, but this was a shitty tactical situation, in the open--Khalid could see them, Gus could probably see them from the windows or the security cameras across the street, and God knew how long it was going to take a handful of bangers to roll by and decide this looked like a good time waiting to happen.

"Charlie, does Da--does anybody know where you are? What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

Charlie took a step toward him, turning a little, and the streetlights fell full on his face. His wide brown eyes met Don's steadily, like this was clear and simple and Don just wasn't getting it. "I found you. I had to come."

Don shook his head, finally stepping toward Charlie, reaching out a hand. "What you have to do is get back in your car and drive," he said, grabbing Charlie's left arm to turn him. "You are not--"

Charlie had reached up and grabbed his wrist. Don heard the familiar metallic sound, felt the cool hard touch on his skin, but it didn't register. He looked down and watched Charlie's hand close the cuff, heard it lock, and only then did he jerk his hand back, pulling Charlie's left hand after him.

Charlie had handcuffed them together. "What the fuck, Charlie--"

"I just want to talk," Charlie said, in a soothing voice like this was perfectly reasonable. "Just give me however long it takes you to get out of these to talk to you before you tell me I have to leave."

Don met Charlie's eyes warily. "Where's the key, Charlie?"

Charlie smiled a little. "Down my pants. Don't tell me you can't pick your way out of a pair of handcuffs."

"Charlie--" Don jerked hard on the cuffs, just to yank Charlie off balance. "What the hell, you didn't--"

"You went to pretty great lengths to avoid talking to me the last time you took off," Charlie said, voice still perfectly even, and Don felt a stab of guilt, an old never-healed wound torn wide open. "I'm just taking a sensible precaution to slow you down."

Don gritted his teeth. There wasn't much he could say to that, because honestly if he'd gotten Charlie back into the car and out of here, he'd have taken off himself, found a job out of Indiana or Kentucky, maybe. He'd have gotten right the hell away from this, because--Terry had called him and said Charlie was doing all right, and that meant no one knew, and that meant Charlie had kept it a secret. And God only knew what that meant.

"I just want to talk," Charlie repeated, stepping closer, bringing their hands together. "Okay? I just want to talk to you."

Don looked around again. Khalid was making change, traffic was humming by, and he was handcuffed to Charlie. This had officially become a matter of limiting unavoidable risk.

"In the truck," Don said, pushing Charlie ahead of him toward the driver's side door.

Don pushed him across the bench seat to the passenger side, and pressed Charlie back against the seat with his right hand while he leaned across to reach the glove compartment with his left. Charlie focused on breathing--Don, he'd found Don, Don was here--and didn't say anything until Don straightened up with a small kit in his left hand.

Don tugged their joined hands over, resting his own right wrist on his thigh, letting Charlie's left hand fall beside his leg.

"Turn on the light?" Don muttered, looking down at the lock picks in his hand.

Charlie was tempted for a second to say he had to do it himself, or pick the lock by feel--which he'd be doing anyway, really--but he was already leaning toward Don and reaching for the switch on the dome light. He couldn't say no to that quiet, automatic request.

Charlie just sat and looked at Don for a moment in the soft overhead light. He'd cut his hair short, and was sporting a few days' growth of stubble. The light shone off stray glints of gray along Don's jaw that Charlie didn't remember seeing before, and there were hard lines around his eyes. It might have been concentration, but Charlie thought he was seeing the last six months drawn on his brother's face.

Don glanced sideways at Charlie without raising his head. "So talk." He selected a slender piece of metal. "I gotta do this left-handed, you've got about five minutes."

Charlie cleared his throat, thinking of what he had to say, everything he had to say. There were too many things that all had to be said first.

"I remember," Charlie said finally, and Don's jaw went tight--tighter--at that. "It took a while. I remembered you last, but I do remember now, everything. I didn't--before I was kidnapped, I didn't want--"

Don looked up at him wide-eyed, some of the color going out of his face behind his summer tan, and Charlie realized Don hadn't been worried about that possibility until Charlie said it.

Charlie looked down at his lap, his free hand clenched into a fist. "But I... now I do, I still do want you."

Don shook his head a little, frowning harder, but didn't look up from his work.

Charlie let the words tumble out, even if they were maybe the wrong ones, because he'd been wanting to say this ever since he'd remembered it. "I remember you, growing up, I remember--I remember that time Mom took me to your baseball game, I must have been four years old, I hadn't started calculus yet. But Mom made me sit on her lap and pay attention when you were up to bat, and then I saw it, you know? The area under the curve, the trajectory, and I didn't have words for it, or numbers even. I just knew it was something fascinating. After the game, I begged you to bat again, and I couldn't even say why I wanted to see it, but you told Mom you didn't mind, and we must have stayed at the park for an hour while you stood there and hit the ball around so I could watch."

Don sighed, and when Charlie looked up he was rubbing the back of his left hand against his eyes. "It was about fifteen minutes, Charlie."

Charlie shrugged. "It was important. You were a good brother to me, you always have been. You saved my life."

"I fucked you," Don said savagely, and Charlie heard the too-hard click of metal against metal, felt the impact through the cuffs.

"Yeah," Charlie said, as mildly as he could manage with his whole chest turning dense and sinking inside him. He couldn't do this to Don again, couldn't hurt Don again knowing what he knew. "Well, it was your turn by then."

Don didn't look up at that.

"Don, I am the only person who's ever going to understand what actually went on in there, and I know you didn't hurt me. I mean, I got hurt enough. I could tell the difference."

Don shook his head. "You're my brother, Charlie. I was supposed to protect you--"

"You did. You did protect me, we both know it would have been worse if you hadn't been there--Don, listen to me, I am not that four-year-old kid at the park anymore, okay? I'm thirty. I'm an adult. This thing, this last year, it happened and it changed things, and we can't undo it. Our lives would both be easier if I'd never been kidnapped. Your life would be easier if you'd never come after me. But we can't just pretend it never happened."

"I'm not pretending anything," Don said quietly. "It's over. You get back to your life, I get on with mine, that's all there is to it."

"No, that's not--Don, I miss you. I miss you every day. Every night. When I get scared I wish you were there. When I figure something out I wish you were there. When I go outside just by opening a door, I wish you were there. I--I think sometimes it'd be okay to be back there if--"

"Don't say that," Don snapped, and Charlie swallowed the words, swallowed I love you, I still love you, I always did along with them. There were things Don didn't want to hear, and Charlie couldn't force him. Not now. Not again.

"I just want you," Charlie said quietly. "You were the only good thing in the world, and I want you back."

The cuff on Don's wrist opened, and he yanked his hand away from Charlie's.

"Well, maybe I want to be able to look you in the eye," Don said, sounding tired. "Or myself, how about that?"

Charlie winced. He'd done that to Don--he'd done all of this to Don, those lines on his face, that gray in his beard--and he couldn't undo it. There was only one thing he could offer his brother now.

"Then say no," Charlie whispered, and Don looked up at him warily. Charlie remembered that look, remembered every time Don had looked at him that way, waiting for the next sneak attack.

Charlie shook his head. "Say no now, and I won't ask again, I swear to you."

Don didn't say anything right away. His right hand closed around Charlie's left wrist, tugging it over to rest on his thigh, and Charlie held his breath, keeping his fingers loosely curled, not touching. Don hadn't said anything yet, and silence wasn't an answer. Silence was uncertainty, silence was equally yes and no at once. Both true, in a quantum state.

Don picked the lock in under a minute, took the cuffs and pocketed them. He didn't push Charlie's hand away, but sat so rigidly that Charlie pulled back, settling entirely onto his own side of the seat.

It was hardly a surprise when Don said, quietly but steadily, "No."

Charlie blinked rapidly, and clenched his fists to keep from raising a hand to his suddenly, stupidly watering eyes. That had always been the likeliest result, always. The odds had never been with him and he knew that. Don had never wanted this, never wanted to want it, and it had never been fair of Charlie to ask for it. He knew that. He'd known it for months now.

Charlie nodded. "Do you, uh--" he had to pause, swallowing hard, and try again to get the words out calmly. "Could we get a cup of coffee or something, before you point me back to the freeway?"

He dared a glance up, and Don was leaning toward his own door, still wary. Charlie smiled unsteadily. "I mean, come on. It's been a year since we could actually talk to each other. I've missed you."

Don looked away. Charlie stared at the nape of his neck as he leaned his forehead against the window, his stiff shoulder like a wall between them. Even now he wanted to reach for Don, but he couldn't help remembering all the time they'd spent with only the illusion of privacy between them, when the best either of them could do was pretend not to see or hear. He remembered Don sobbing in the night, hiding from him in the bathroom.

Charlie reached for the door handle, opening his mouth to say never mind or good-bye.

Don straightened up before Charlie could get the words out. He looked straight ahead, getting his keys out of his pocket. "Follow me," he said. "Stay close."

Don split his attention almost evenly between the road and the rearview mirror. Charlie stayed close, tailing him like Don was giving him a tow. They were at a stoplight, practically nose-to-tail, and Don rubbed his right wrist as he looked around.

For all he'd been waiting for someone to come after him, he'd never expected it to be Charlie slapping cuffs on him.

And now--it wasn't over, because Charlie hadn't told anybody anything. Don couldn't think about what Charlie had said without his guts rolling--all the guilty things he'd wanted when they were impossible had been suddenly sitting beside him in the car, guiltier than ever. But once he'd gotten that close, he couldn't bear to think of just waving Charlie off with directions back to the freeway, either, and Charlie knew that as well as Don did.

It'd be better to be on neutral ground for this--coffee, like Charlie had said, somewhere well-lit and public where Charlie wouldn't be tempted to go back on that promise of his. Where Don wouldn't be tempted--

But they couldn't talk in public, not really, not easily. And Charlie had promised him. Don did believe he meant it. Charlie had never meant to do what they did, Don knew that perfectly well. It was going to be hard as hell, but maybe they could fight their way back to what they should be, and there was no way to find out but to try.

Don fought down the jitters, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, and led Charlie back to his apartment.

Don showed him where to park: a lot behind a shabby brick building, four stories high. Don gave Charlie's car another uneasy look in the dim light from the street and said, "Bring in whatever you don't want stolen."

Charlie nodded, grabbing the cardboard box as well as his backpack. "This is it."

Don gestured for Charlie to walk ahead of him toward the building, brushing his thumb over the gun he wore on his hip, and Charlie realized that he had hardly noticed Don was wearing one. It belonged there, though, at his right side. That was where Don had always worn his gun before. That one small thing hadn't changed.

They didn't speak as Don herded Charlie inside, through a dingy lobby and up three flights of stairs, narrow and steep. There were occasional sounds from the other apartments--televisions playing, voices raised in argument or laughter--but Don and Charlie stayed silent.

This wasn't just coffee, but Charlie had no idea what it was. Don stopped him at the door of apartment 403, unlocked it and prodded him into the darkness inside, staying behind Charlie--and that was strange, Don wouldn't let him go first into a new place. Then Don switched the light on and turned to lock the doors behind them, and Charlie grasped that Don lived here, in this rundown building in a bad neighborhood. He'd brought Charlie home with him.

Charlie took a cautious step inside. The kitchen was a strip of linoleum to Charlie's left, refrigerator and sink and stove and a tiny square of countertop all lined up against the wall. There was a card table on the threadbare carpeting to Charlie's right. The table was piled high with papers, folded clothes, and random detritus, with just a small space in front of one of the two mismatched chairs left clear.

Beyond that a couch--orange and yellow and green plaid, in the particular shades that suggested the couch was as old as Charlie was--demarcated the living room. It faced toward the far wall, where a television rested on a small table. There was a stack of paperback books on top of the TV.

Don stepped away from the door and stepped carefully around Charlie, headed toward a small hallway that led off past the kitchen, toward what Charlie presumed must be Don's bedroom.

Don still hadn't said a word. Charlie set down his bag and box in the space under the table where a third chair might have gone, and walked toward the TV, curious about his brother's choice of reading material.

The book on the top of the stack had a rabbit on the cover, and Charlie picked it up and stared at it, baffled.

"You ever read that one?"

Charlie looked up to see Don standing at the mouth of the hallway, just where the wall separating it from the living room ended. His arms were folded, but he'd taken his gun off and was leaning almost casually against the wall.

Charlie looked back down at the book and shook his head. "It's a timeless classic of exile, courage, and survival? About rabbits?"

Don snorted, and when Charlie looked up again he was smiling a little. "I forgot you guys in remedial English didn't have to read actual books."

Charlie set the book down and folded his own arms. "I was eleven and reading at a seventh grade level, Don. It wasn't remedial for me."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Don said, waving one hand as he turned away, walking over to the refrigerator. "You want a beer?"

Staring as Don bent to reach into the fridge, Charlie had a sudden, powerful sense memory of lying on that motel bed, drunk, Don sliding down to kneel between his legs. He'd asked Don that night, point blank. Tell me what's going on. Don had said nothing. Don had fucked him, and Charlie couldn't remember anything that had ever felt that good.

One beer would render him a little sloppy and make him forget Don's silent uneasiness. Two would probably be a bad idea. Three would be way too many. The danger compounded itself from there.

Don straightened up, looking back at him. "Charlie? Was that a difficult question?"

Yes, it was, and Don's face started to show it as Charlie stood there saying nothing. Charlie quickly shook his head. "Sorry," he said, smiling. "Just--zoned out there. Yeah, beer's good."

Don held his gaze for an extra second--this was difficult, they both knew it, however they might pretend it wasn't--but eventually he nodded back and pulled a second beer from the fridge.

They sat down on opposite ends of the sagging couch and drank the first few sips in silence.

The air conditioner, set into the outside wall above Don's head, rattled softly, generating a low constant background noise. A siren penetrated at one point, and Charlie saw Don respond to it, tensing up, turning his head slightly to listen.

Charlie forced himself to look away, studying their faint distorted reflection in the dark TV. He wanted to turn it on, to give them both something to stare at while they pretended not to stare at each other. Before, that was how they'd spent a lot of their time together--watching TV, or working. The only time it had been just the two of them in a quiet room... they'd had other ways to entertain each other.

Charlie bit his lip and swallowed the impulse to suggest a game of chess.

Don cleared his throat.

Charlie looked up cautiously, trying not to look too eager for whatever Don might say, but Don was staring intently at his beer bottle. "You, uh, see much hockey after you got home?"

Charlie gritted his teeth until he could think of something to say other than After I got home?

Don looked up, tense and wary, and Charlie really hadn't come all this way to hit him, not when he was down this far. Charlie smiled as reassuringly as he knew how.

"Yeah," he said. "Just about every Kings game and the Olympics, and most of the playoffs."

Don nodded. "I wondered if the rule changes screwed up all those stats you used to keep."

Charlie tried not to be obvious about the catch of his breath, the violent swing of emotion from anger to affection. Don had thought about him when he watched hockey.

His smile widened of its own volition. "Oh my God, fifteen years of stats tracking down the drain--the goalie statistics this year are completely haywire, and with that many simultaneous rule changes it's impossible to track meaningful correlations, let alone causation."

"Well, yeah," Don said, "but you couldn't really compare stats from 1990 and 2004, either."

"No," Charlie said, "Actually I could." They'd had this argument before, but Charlie was willing to lay it out for Don again--the way the statistics could be studied in the aggregate as an evolution of the system.

Don kept making arguments about Gretzky (a classic outlier) and improved training and equipment (a punctuated equilibrium). Charlie's beer was half gone by the time Don tried to argue that the crease rule invalidated a whole season's statistics, and Charlie said, "Oh come on, that's a perfect experimental structure--"

Charlie's mouth kept going, explaining the importance of altering one variable at a time, but his brain ground to a halt, because Don was suddenly smiling at him. Really smiling, showing teeth, eyes bright and surrounded by laugh lines. Charlie's body had the predictable reaction--hunger twisting hot in his belly and the same smile stretching across his own face--and he had to look away to keep from stuttering.

When he looked back Don was still smiling, and Charlie remembered the second time they'd ever bet on chess. Charlie had won a hug and Don had given it to him happily, and Don was happy now. Don was happy just like this, sitting on the couch, talking to his brother about nothing important at all.

Charlie took a breath and a swig of beer, and let Don refute him with an appeal to emotion and the injustice of the Stars' 1999 Stanley Cup victory. Even as Don's smile faded--he'd always been pretty bitter on the Sabres' behalf, for no reason Charlie could readily identify--Charlie's awareness of his happiness remained, and with it the knowledge that he was the cause of Don's happiness. Not exactly the way he wanted to be, not with every last thing he wanted, but Charlie had found Don, and Don was happy.

Nothing else mattered this much.

Don made his beer last, not finishing it until it had gone spit-warm. Charlie's was empty, and he was peeling the label as he rambled about some problem he and Amita were collaborating on long-distance.

Charlie didn't get the old Amita-smile on his face, but he talked about math just like he used to, full of analogies about ocean waves and road maps that didn't really explain anything but let Don feel like he understood anyway. This was almost like before--like when they'd been brothers, when things had been right--except for the careful way they both avoided the possibility of a second bottle of beer. Fidgety as he was, Charlie stayed carefully on the far cushion, and Don didn't sprawl out either, both scrupulously and silently observing the invisible line down the middle of the couch.

This was close, though. Close to normal, close to what they should be, and maybe they could both just fake it until it seemed real. Don told Charlie edited stories from the last six months, the same way he used to talk about work before Charlie became a part of it, and he corrected the stories about himself that Charlie said Billy had told him. He laughed and he made Charlie laugh, and it didn't cross Don's mind to look at his watch until Charlie yawned in the middle of expounding on the flatness of the Plains. It was past two in the morning.

Charlie sat up painfully straight, rubbing his eyes, and muttered, "I should get..."

Don scrubbed a hand over his own face, told himself to let him go, let him go, that was the smart brother talking and he should listen.

"Crash here," he said, getting up and heading for the little closet in the hallway where he kept the clean set of sheets and a couple of blankets. "The bars are letting out now, you don't want to be on the road."

Charlie was standing by the end of the couch when Don came back with a sheet and blanket. "Don, are you sure..."

Don just pushed the stuff into Charlie's hands, and Charlie accepted it. Don reached out and mussed Charlie's hair--it had grown long again, like it was supposed to be. "Yeah, buddy, I'm sure. The couch won't kill you, I promise."

Charlie smiled at that, ducking his head under Don's hand, and Don pulled his hand back and closed it into a fist at his side. It had been better not to touch Charlie, not to see him smile like that when Don reached out.

"Night," Don muttered, and Charlie nodded and echoed him as Don turned away.

The bedroom was stuffy--it would become actually suffocating if he turned the air conditioner off--but the windows all had safety-stops that kept them from opening more than a few inches, far from being enough to help. Don stripped to boxers and t-shirt and laid down on the bed, long since stripped down to sheets, and buried his face in the single pillow. Charlie was lying on his couch right now, Charlie was here, Charlie...

Don woke up as he rolled out of bed, onto his feet. Something was wrong. He reached for the scanner beside the bed, but all the lights were out, and the laptop balanced on top of it was turned off.

Don heard a low sound from the living room--a footfall, a muttered word--and it came quickly back to him. Charlie, and something was wrong. Don was down the hallway before he could think twice.

Charlie was standing between the couch and the card table, shoulders drawn up tight, arms wrapped around himself. He was shivering; the temperature must have finally dropped, and the air conditioning had caught up and kept on chugging. It was chilly in the living room, and Charlie was cold.

"Hey," Don said softly, walking toward Charlie. "Hey, buddy, what--"

Charlie turned toward him as Don touched his shoulder, pushing Don away with more speed than force. Don backed up all the way to the sink as Charlie closed his arms around himself, pacing back and forth in the space behind the couch, muttering again as he rubbed his hands over his arms.

Not just cold. Charlie was cold and freaking out. Don should've caught that faster--he'd done it enough himself, waking up alone in strange places. He'd done it the first three or four times he woke up here, and in more motel rooms than he cared to remember. Half the time when he was out on the road he slept awkwardly curled up in the truck--that way even before he could remember where he'd parked, he knew where he was.

Charlie made a sharp left toward the front door, and Don hung on to the counter and didn't stop him. If Charlie didn't want to be touched right now, telling him he wasn't allowed to leave was a really bad idea.

Letting him bolt out into Don's street--hell, into Don's building--at three in the morning, barefoot and in his underwear, would be a worse idea, but Don could run at least as fast as Charlie could, if it came to that. He wouldn't be alone.

Charlie unlocked the deadbolt, and Don stepped away from the counter, wondering if he'd be able to at least stop Charlie in the hallway, once he'd realized he could go that far. But Charlie locked the deadbolt again after a couple of seconds, took the chain off and put it back on, locked and unlocked the doorknob a couple of times. Don breathed again, leaning against the counter. What was it Charlie had said? Every time I go outside just by opening a door-- and Don was here this time, for all the good it was doing. Charlie seemed to have the situation under control.

As Don watched, Charlie leaned his forehead against the door. His shoulders eased down, and he reached up and rubbed the nape of his neck. Don saw the moment when fear slid into self-consciousness, and that, at least, Charlie might let him help with.

"I used to have nightmares all the time," Don said softly. "Even when I woke up, I still..."

Charlie turned to face him, already nodding. "Post-traumatic stress," he said quietly. "My psychologist said it usually resolves on its own by about six months, so..." Charlie waved his hands.

It was the first Charlie had mentioned seeing a shrink, but Don was glad, painfully glad. When Terry had called, all Don could think was that it must mean Charlie hadn't told anyone the truth, and if he hadn't, then maybe he hadn't gotten any help at all.

"Good," Don said, and cleared his throat. "Guess we're almost there, then, huh?"

Charlie tilted his head. The math wouldn't be hard for him. Six months since they'd escaped had passed a few days ago; six months since Don dropped Charlie at the house would be this weekend.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Don looked away from Charlie. He could still feel Charlie's hair under the palm of his hand, and now that he wasn't shoving Don off Charlie was just standing there, looking at him. It was like being in that basement all over again; neither of them could go anywhere and all Don wanted was to make it okay. All he wanted was to reach out and touch Charlie.

Don stared steadily at the couch, the sheet crumpled at one end. The blanket had disappeared, probably down on the floor.

"You want to crash in the bed?" Don asked. "It's cold out here, but it's worse if I turn the AC off."

When Don looked up, Charlie just looked tired, frowning a little, like this math was a challenge. Calculating, just like when Don had asked him if he wanted a beer.

"I don't want to kick you out," Charlie said finally. "I'll just--watch some TV or something. Go back to bed."

Even the wave of Charlie's arm toward the television was tired, and Don couldn't send Charlie back out on the road after an hour's sleep, couldn't let Charlie sit out here shivering and watching infomercials. He couldn't lie in bed and know that Charlie was out here, not okay.

"Don't, then."

Charlie frowned, shaking his head a little, lips parted.

"Don't kick me out," Don elaborated, forcing himself to look Charlie in the eye as he said it. "Just--come sleep. If it would help."

Charlie frowned harder and looked down. "Don, I can't--if this is some kind of test, please, don't--"

Charlie's small, tired voice was a punch in the gut, and Don looked away for a second, because Charlie was right and maybe it wasn't fair to either of them. Maybe saying no to what Charlie had offered meant saying no to what Charlie needed. But it was three in the morning and Charlie was cold and Don couldn't think of anything but taking care of his brother, just a little. Just tonight.

"It's not a test, Charlie, it's just sleeping. I promise."

Charlie nodded warily, and Don's stomach burned at the knowledge that he'd done that to his baby brother. It was him Charlie wasn't sure he could trust. There was only one way he could convince Charlie he meant what he was saying, and that was to stop talking.

Don crossed the space between them, and Charlie watched him all the way and didn't back up. Don caught Charlie's shoulder and this time Charlie didn't push him away, let Don's arms close around him. He stayed still, shoulder poking rigidly against Don's chest, for a second, and then Don tugged gently and Charlie folded, releasing a breath and letting his head fall against Don's shoulder.

"Come on," Don said softly. "You need to get some sleep."

Charlie nodded, his hair tickling Don's throat, and let Don prod him toward the hallway and into the bedroom. It was ten degrees warmer past the threshold, and Charlie seemed to relax further, not hesitating to climb onto Don's bed. He took the space by the wall automatically, reaching down to pull the sheet up over himself.

Don pushed the single pillow to Charlie's side and laid down facing the door, his head pillowed on his arm. He could feel Charlie squirming around behind him, getting comfortable, and even when he went still Don could feel his presence, his warmth, his weight on the other half of the mattress. Don fell asleep before he could think too much about how right it felt.

Don woke up to the too-warm weight of a body against his back and his head on a pillow.

Charlie.

It was Charlie's shoulder blade against his back, Charlie's hair brushing his neck, Charlie sharing the single pillow. It was Charlie's slow and steady breathing he could hear over the distant hum of the air-conditioner and the morning sounds of traffic from the street.

Don kept still, not even opening his eyes, letting himself wake up into the morning after the night before. Charlie was in his bed because Charlie had found him, tracked him down and drove from LA to Detroit to say--you were the only good thing.

Even now, even knowing, after everything Don had done to him--Charlie had come after him and said that. Charlie had given him that.

And Don couldn't stop wanting Charlie close, closer than this, closer than he should be. It was a constant awareness, his whole body humming for contact, for Charlie. Don had lasted six hours before going this far, and he'd been here before.

He knew how this road looked.

He wasn't going to go halfway and stop--he hadn't when he had every reason to, and now Charlie was telling him they could do this if they wanted to, because they wanted to. Six months had gone by and Don wanted exactly what he'd wanted the last time he'd seen Charlie. This wasn't going to go away unless Don walked away again, and even then it would only stay gone if Charlie did.

Charlie moved against Don's back, making a small sleepy sound that reverberated across Don's skin, leaving him suddenly wide awake. Don moved slowly, scooting out of bed. He couldn't resist a backward glance once he was safely on his feet.

Charlie had tipped onto his back in the space Don left empty. In the second Don hesitated, Charlie blinked sleepily and smiled, slow and warm. Don's breath caught, and he bolted for the shower.

Charlie stared after Don for a minute, then got up and went out to the living room to find his pants. He started coffee in the kitchen, and then went over to the card table and started carefully rearranging the stacks of things without disturbing their internal structures, until he'd cleared enough space to accommodate people sitting in both of the chairs.

By the time the shower turned off, Charlie was sitting at the spot that obviously wasn't Don's usual one, with a cup of coffee. The first sip was shockingly sweet--Charlie wasn't used to Splenda, he'd used too much--but drinking it gave him something to do while he sat and waited for whatever was about to happen next. The night was a little fuzzy in his mind--nightmare and panic attack and Don all blurred together--but he'd definitely woken up in Don's bed, with the memory of Don's body still warm on his skin.

And Don had looked back.

Don came out of the bedroom after a few minutes, wearing a clean t-shirt and last night's jeans, his feet bare and his hair damp. Charlie looked down at the mug in his hands and managed not to look up until Don said, "Oh, coffee," sounding happy and startled to have such a thing in his kitchen. Don's back was to him, and the sound of Don stirring Splenda into his coffee was familiar, the spoon tapping the inside of the mug in a cadence Charlie hadn't known he remembered. Don was wearing his jeans a little looser than he used to, though.

Charlie looked down again as Don turned and came over to the table, sitting down in the other chair. His knee rested against Charlie's under the table, and his hands gripped his coffee mug carefully. When Charlie looked up again, reaching for something to say--he should ask for directions back to the freeway, ask whether Don was going to be busy today--Don was staring down at his coffee, frowning slightly.

"Last night."

Charlie didn't say a word.

Don looked up and met his eyes with an uncertainty that stopped Charlie's breath.

"If I hadn't said no," Don said, and Charlie's heart started beating in double time. "If I'd said I don't know. If I asked you to convince me."

Don didn't inflect any of them as questions, like he already knew the answer and didn't really want to hear it, his eyes fixed on Charlie like his last desperate hope. Charlie had to look away and take a breath. He'd thought about this, dreamed about having this chance, one more chance to make Don believe him, believe this thing between them. He'd spent half the drive just working out arguments, logical steps that progressed to this.

All last night, talking to Don, he hadn't let himself hope for a second chance, and now here it was, out of nowhere, over coffee, and Charlie couldn't remember a single persuasive word. He cleared his throat.

"I could say you're the only one who will ever know," Charlie said slowly. "You're the only one I can ever tell."

Don nodded slightly, but nothing eased in his face. This argument was just one more source of pressure on Don, and Don looked close to crushed already.

Charlie looked around Don's apartment and shrugged. "But that's bullshit. If the last year has taught us anything it's taught us we can survive. We can survive just about anything and come out the other side."

Don looked startled at that, shifting in his seat. That was the way, then. Gently, like one of those Chinese finger traps Charlie had been forever getting himself trapped in as a kid. Don had had to cut him out with scissors once.

"I'd get a few more years of therapy," Charlie said, waving one hand. "You'd... keep doing what you're doing. We might not see each other much, we might not be able to hang out together without thinking of it, but we'd get along. We could survive it."

Don nodded slowly.

Charlie leaned in. "It's just--I've had enough of being told I can't have anything but what's inside some little box. I'm tired of my life being something I have to survive. I'm tired of waiting to get used to this. I want you, Don."

Don's mouth twitched up and down fast, more nervousness than a smile or a frown, but it was a response. Charlie had to remind himself that there were two cups of hot coffee and a rickety table between him and Don.

"I want you in every fucking way there is, and if you want me like that then I don't see any reason why we shouldn't have what we want. Otherwise we might as well still be in some basement in Wisconsin, right?"

Don was squinting at him, and Charlie's heart was pounding, a painful hot blush creeping up his face even as Don's squint melted into a smile.

"Was that the hard sell?"

Charlie shrugged and looked down, forcing himself to take a sip of his coffee. "I thought you got enough of the hard sell the first time."

Don snorted, and he was still smiling when Charlie looked up, and if Don would let him talk about that--if Don kept smiling at him like that--

Don looked away, rubbing a hand over his face, and he tensed up again.

"I wish I..."

Charlie waited, letting his hands clench in his lap. Don's voice was strained and weary, and Don wouldn't look at him.

"I wish I didn't want this," Don finally said, so softly that Charlie almost didn't realize what he was saying. "I wish I didn't--this isn't what I wanted for you, Charlie. I wanted you to be able to just... just walk away from what happened."

Charlie couldn't help laughing a little, the unbearable tension snapping loose.

Don's head jerked up, his expression unreadable, and Charlie caught his breath.

"Don, I did walk away. We both did. We just walked away different."

Don smiled a little and looked away. "Yeah, I figured that out."

Charlie studied Don's profile, wondering--but Don had asked. Don had brought it up. "Wishing you didn't want it isn't the same as not wanting it."

"No," Don said, letting his face fall into his hands. His voice was a little muffled, his shoulders still rigid. "No, it's not."

Charlie wanted to say more, to tell him it didn't have to be scary, didn't have to hurt, didn't have to leave him all tied up in knots like he visibly was--but this wasn't the hard sell. Don knew what Charlie thought, knew what Charlie wanted. He had to let Don make his own decision, to accept this possibility or to go on wanting not to want this, if that was what he had to do. If he wanted that more than he wanted Charlie.

Don let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He dropped his hands, tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, and Charlie couldn't read his eyes from this angle. He just had to wait for whatever Don would say.

"Charlie, I can't--I really can't ever come back home."

That wasn't an objection. That was logistics.

"Don," Charlie said, and the word was a laugh, drawing Don's gaze back to him, bright and startled, his lips parted. "I know. I don't care where you are. Just stay where I can find you."

Don licked his lip and let out a breath. He shifted in his seat--for a moment Charlie thought he was getting up, but he was just taking something from his pocket. The metal caught the light, and Charlie's eye was drawn down to Don's hand as he set the handcuffs on the table and pushed them toward Charlie.

"Make me."

Charlie stood up slowly, and Don's eyes followed the motion upward, but Don didn't move. Charlie set one hand down on the cuffs, the other flat on the table, and leaned carefully down to Don.

Don didn't back away, didn't move, just watched Charlie all the way. Charlie let his own eyes close as he pressed his lips to Don's, a soft, careful kiss. Don's mouth opened under his, Don's breath escaping into his mouth, and the slight contact had Charlie's skin humming.

Don's head tilted under the kiss, fitting their mouths together, letting Charlie's tongue slide into his mouth. Charlie shifted one hand to Don's shoulder, leaning closer. He was faintly aware of the edge of the table against his thighs, but he couldn't think of anything but Don's mouth, Don's tongue curling tentatively against his, Don's shoulder solid under his hand.

Don's hand curled around Charlie's wrist, thumb stroking along the veins, and Charlie groaned against his mouth and pulled back. Don's lips were red, a little wet, and when they curled up Charlie forced himself to look at Don's eyes, which were also smiling. Charlie smiled back, feeling more breathless than a kiss could account for. "Really?"

Don licked his lips and nodded, his hand still holding Charlie's wrist. Charlie looked down at the table, the handcuffs in the shadow of his own body, and, God, he remembered the handcuffs, remembered telling Don to show him what he liked. You like me.

"Okay," Charlie said, letting go of Don's shoulder and straightening up. Don held onto his wrist for another second, but he let go when Charlie tugged, and Charlie picked up the cuffs.

When Charlie met Don's eyes again, he wasn't smiling anymore. He was watching Charlie, biting his lip and waiting to see what Charlie would do. He remembered Don's whisper when it had been him in cuffs. Tell me what to do.

"Stand up," Charlie said, and Don obeyed instantly, offering Charlie his hands without being asked, palm up, wrists together.

Charlie took a deep breath and positioned the cuffs in his hands. He'd practiced this for hours before he left LA and all the way across the country, practiced being quick and halfway smooth. Now, when Don was making it easy for him, now he felt like he'd never held the cuffs in his hands before.

Charlie looked from Don's wrists to his face and back, and leaned in past Don's hands to brush a quick kiss across his mouth. "This time I want you to watch," Charlie said softly.

Don nodded, and looked down at his own hands. Charlie took hold of Don's left wrist and slowly and deliberately closed the cuff around it. The sound of the lock closing seemed to echo in his head; he felt Don's whole arm jerk, heard his breath catch.

Charlie looked up. Don's eyes were wide, like Charlie had done something more than just cuff him, and maybe he had. Charlie tugged on the still-open cuff, pulling Don up against him, and pulled him down for another kiss. "I've got you now," he murmured.

Don nodded but still didn't speak. Charlie thought he might have to order him to, and smiled at the thought. Not yet, though. He was getting ahead of himself.

"Come on." Charlie turned away, towing Don behind him by his one cuffed wrist, all the way back to the bedroom.

Don's bed was a futon frame with an actual mattress stacked on top. What would have been the arm of the couch protruded a couple of inches above the mattress and looked like it was probably sturdy enough to hold Don unless he got really serious about fighting it.

"Lie down on your back," Charlie said, letting go of the cuffs, and Don obeyed. Charlie followed him onto the bed, straddling Don's chest and pulling his wrists up to the top of the mattress. Don was holding very still beneath him, his arms completely without resistance. His fingers barely twitched when Charlie closed the second cuff around his wrist, and Charlie curled himself down over Don to kiss the open palm of each hand.

Charlie felt Don squirm under him, and then the hot press of Don's mouth to the inseam of his jeans, a little above his knee. Charlie looked down at Don's outstretched arms, Don's wrists ringed in steel, the darkness of Don's hair, Don's face hidden against his jeans. He bit his lip hard, trying to ignore the way the sight went straight to his dick, made him want to forget everything else and get off now.

Charlie moved back until he was straddling Don's waist and then stretched out over him chest-to-chest, bearing his own weight on his knees and elbows. He kissed Don slowly. Don tilted his chin up, his mouth falling open, but Charlie kept the kiss light, his tongue tracing Don's lips and flicking inside. His hands curled around Don's forearms, and he could feel the muscles tighten and release as Don's hands opened and closed.

Don kept trying to say his name, teeth drawing together and a puff of air escaping into Charlie's mouth, "Cha--"

"Sh, let me," he breathed back. "God, I missed kissing you."

Don made a sound low in his throat that Charlie thought might have been agreement; Don lifted his head into the next kiss, pressing his tongue up into Charlie's mouth. Charlie sucked hard and pushed back, deepening the kiss and forcing Don's head back down against the mattress. Don writhed under him, his arms jerking when Charlie dragged a thumbnail across the inside of his elbow. The sound that escaped between his mouth and Charlie's was almost pained. Charlie allowed himself one last taste of Don's lower lip and then sat up.

Don was panting, cheeks flushed, and his fists clenched and stayed closed as Charlie looked at him. Charlie frowned. "Don?"

Don closed his eyes. "It wasn't you looking at me before," he whispered, his voice almost breaking.

Charlie's stomach clenched--if this wasn't going to work, he couldn't, he couldn't force it--but when he shifted his weight Don's hips jerked up under him, and disinterest was definitely not the issue.

Charlie leaned low over Don and kissed him one more time. "It was, though," Charlie whispered. "I remember it very clearly."

He drew back just far enough to make eye contact, and Don didn't avoid his gaze this time.

"Tell me what to do for you," Charlie whispered. "Tell me what to do and I will do it."

Don shook his head a little wildly. "Don't make me ask, Charlie, please don't--"

"Shh." Charlie let his breath out against Don's mouth, lips not quite touching. "I won't make you. You don't have to ask."

Charlie reached down for the hem of Don's t-shirt and pulled it up, and Don arched beneath him, cooperating. Charlie pushed it all the way up his arms to the cuffs. He spent a minute tucking edges between the cuffs and Don's wrists, frowning in concentration. When he was done, it looked like Charlie had tied Don to the bed with his t-shirt, like there was hardly anything holding him there at all.

Don squirmed, and Charlie caught a glimpse of the bullet scar just below his elbow.

"I remember this," Charlie murmured against his skin, licking a ring around the scar. Don shivered, and Charlie could feel the hair on his arm standing up. Charlie shifted backward, licking up the firm line of Don's triceps from armpit to elbow. He could feel Don watching him, his breath quick on Charlie's cheek.

"I remember this. I remember the way you smell," Charlie whispered. Straight from the shower, Don smelled just the same, clean and a little sweaty. The scent rising off his skin was enough to put Charlie right back on that mattress, right back in any of those motel rooms between Chicago and LA.

Charlie licked the line of Don's throat. "I remember you," Charlie whispered. "God, for six months. Every time I jerked off, Don."

"Yeah," Don breathed, and Charlie knew it was agreement, not acknowledgement. He rewarded Don with a bite to the collarbone, and when Don moaned Charlie gave him a matching one on the opposite side.

Charlie looked down Don's chest, debating licking versus biting, and then got completely derailed by Don's left side, mottled yellow-brown with a bruise bigger than Charlie's hand. Charlie scooted lower, bracing his hands on Don's hips to keep him still. "This, I don't remember."

"Hazards of--" Don managed, and then Charlie was licking carefully just around the edge of the mark, and Don seemed to stop breathing. Charlie carefully traced the lines of Don's ribs with his tongue--he'd have noticed if they were broken, wouldn't he? Don would have winced, or said something. The sounds Don made didn't sound pained.

It could have been worse, so much worse--Charlie had read plenty of stories while he was looking for Don, he knew the kinds of risks Don ran. He was suddenly short of patience. Don could have died, waiting, and Charlie didn't really want to make him wait anymore.

He unbuttoned Don's jeans and unzipped them, and Don made a relieved sound. He wasn't wearing them that much looser, and he was hard, his cock straining against the soft fabric of his jockeys as Charlie tugged his jeans down. Charlie peeled his shorts down, not touching Don just yet, and Don twisted a little on the bed, silently begging with every movement.

Charlie caught a glimpse of something dark on his hip as he shoved Don's pants down and off. Even as he leaned closer to look, pushing a hand down on Don's belly to keep him still, he realized it was too regular, too starkly black, to be a bruise.

It was a tattoo, small enough to be covered with Charlie's thumb, two lines of lettering.

PLEASE IDENTIFY
BY PRINTS OR DNA

Charlie looked up Don's body as he pressed a kiss to the words, and met Don's eyes looking down. The tattoo was inconspicuous, easy to hide in almost all circumstances. But it was easy to read, and it would be obvious to a doctor. Or a coroner.

They'd make a presumptive ID based on whatever identification Don was carrying. In a city like Detroit no one might bother to look further without an indication that that ID wasn't accurate.

He crawled back up Don's body to kiss his mouth. "You didn't want us to wonder," Charlie whispered against his mouth. "If something happened to you. You wanted me to know."

"If I got myself killed," Don whispered, and Charlie kissed him fiercely, mashing lips and teeth.

"Don't," Charlie said, punctuating the order with a last kiss.

He thought Don nodded, but Charlie was working his way back down Don's body, from the hollow at the base of his throat down his sternum to the softer stretch of his belly, nuzzling more than licking at the curly hair.

Charlie closed a hand around Don's cock and looked up, meeting Don's eyes. Don was watching him, chest rising and falling fast. Charlie stroked him a little, and he could smell Don's cock, sweat and sex and hot skin, all for him. Charlie licked his lips slowly, holding Don's gaze, and Don closed his eyes for a second, shuddering, and then opened them again like he didn't want to miss anything.

Don wasn't telling Charlie no this time. Charlie smiled and sat back a little, making sure he wouldn't block Don's view.

He licked up the underside first, tongue tracing the vein, and Don's whole body twitched under him, a startled sound breaking from Don's mouth and his legs jerking under Charlie. Charlie repositioned himself to lie across Don's legs with one hand on Don's hip, using all his weight to hold him down. He traced the fingers of his free hand lightly over Don's cock, blatantly teasing now. Don's eyes closed and opened over and over.

Charlie flicked his tongue against the crown, barely touching, barely tasting. He was teasing himself as much as Don--he was still fully dressed, hard in his jeans, with Don's knee unyielding as a rock under his hip. He gripped Don's cock again, stroking him hard and fast, and Don's hips fought his weight, jerking helplessly.

Charlie looked up and held Don's gaze as he lowered his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. His lips were brushing Don's cock, and he couldn't resist another lick then, tonguing the slit, making Don gasp his name, the taste of Don exploding in his mouth.

There was just one more thing Charlie wanted, and he was more likely to get it now than ever. He didn't raise his head as he licked his lips, kept his eyes steady on Don's.

"Don," he said his lips brushing Don's cock, his breath puffing out against it. He saw Don swallow, saw the muscles of his arms tense as he waited for Charlie to say more.

"You're looking me in the eye. Now tell me you love me."

Don flinched, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Charlie stroked his hand up and down Don's cock, so hard for him, so ready, needing this so badly after waiting so long.

"I know you do," Charlie whispered. "I know you always have. I know it doesn't change if you can't say it. But I want you to say it for me."

"Charlie," Don breathed, and that was almost it, that tone in his voice almost said it for him. Charlie pressed his tongue to Don's cock, a slow hard swipe. Partial credit.

Don's head fell back, and Charlie watched the tension in his throat, swallowing hard, trying to catch his breath. Charlie touched his teeth, ever so lightly, to Don's circumcision scar, exhaling hot and wet against him.

Don looked up at him again, his head leaning against one arm like he couldn't hold it up. "Charlie," Don repeated hoarsely, and Charlie was ready to give in right then, but the words followed in a rush.

"Charlie, please, yes, okay, yes--I love you, I--"

Charlie didn't hear anything else but the pounding of his own heart in his ears as he finally, finally lowered his mouth onto Don's cock. He sucked hard at the head, first, letting himself learn this, the taste of Don and the weight on his tongue, the stretch of lips and jaw. Charlie hummed his pleasure, his own hips rocking hungrily as his hand worked the length of Don's cock.

Don was making hoarse, incoherent sounds, and Charlie actually looked up before he remembered why there were no hands in his hair or on his shoulder. Don was watching him through half-open eyes. Charlie pulled off and smiled, then went down again, taking Don deep, letting him know exactly what he'd been missing out on.

Charlie worked him over thoroughly, slow and then fast, hard and soft. Don was writhing under him, and Charlie's mouth and throat felt well-used, tingling, flooded with the taste and feel of Don. It took a while for sound to penetrate, Don's voice gasping, "Charlie, please, please, don't--"

Charlie's head jerked up, lips parted, staring. He really hadn't meant to make Don beg.

"Fuck me," Don gasped, eyes closing, hips rolling under Charlie and his legs squirming to spread. "Charlie, please, fuck."

Charlie crawled up Don's body and pressed a wet kiss to his pleading mouth. "Tell me you have stuff in here, because otherwise--"

Don was already nodding, pointing with his elbow and chin to the nightstand beside the bed. Charlie gave him one more hard kiss and scrambled off the bed, attempting to undress and open the drawer at the same time. It wasn't efficient, but he couldn't pull together enough cognition to prioritize with Don still panting on the bed, the taste of Don in his mouth and his own cock hard against his belly when he finally got his pants off.

There was a bottle of lube, half-used--used how, used with whom, but Charlie wouldn't ask, it didn't matter now--and a strip of condoms. Charlie rolled the condom on right then, looking up to see Don watching him. Charlie paused to look up and down the length of Don's body, admiring, considering. As much as he wanted it like this, just like this, Don on his back--Don's eyes were already closing under Charlie's scrutiny, and no. Not this time, not yet.

"On your side, can you," Charlie panted, and Don nodded and rolled, putting his back to Charlie.

Charlie winced at the sight--the broad expanse was marred with a swathe of bruise and scrape that covered most of Don's left shoulder blade, and he'd left Don lying on that--but Don hadn't complained, wasn't complaining now, just tucking his top leg forward to open himself for Charlie, and Charlie couldn't think.

He settled himself on the bed behind Don, carefully kissing his injured shoulder, the nape of his neck, the familiar old scars. At the same time he was slicking two fingers, reaching down. A stroke of slick fingertips just behind Don's balls made Don shudder and gasp, and then Charlie walked the touch back, pressing against Don's ass and in.

It was just his fingertips, but Don's head tipped forward, and Charlie mouthed the nape of his neck and worked his fingers right there, at the hot tight ring of muscle. When he pushed further, Don exhaled and his fingers moved in a startling slide as Don's hips tilted against his hand. "Charlie, please, please, I..."

Charlie waited a little longer, twisting his fingers in and out until Don's breathing was ragged and his hips were jerking back for every movement of Charlie's fingers. He could see Don's biceps tensing, hear the muffled rattle of the cuffs against the bed frame. Charlie slicked himself hastily, slid down a little and braced one hand on Don's tucked-up thigh, positioning himself.

He meant to go slow, meant to take it easy, but after the first instant of pressure his hips were snapping roughly forward, his cock shoving inside. Don was gasping hoarsely, yes and yes and more. Charlie tightened his grip and pounded into him, pressing tongue and teeth against Don's shoulder. He could taste dried blood and Don's sweat, and Don's ass was tight on his cock, and Don was his, his, and after six months Charlie was home.

It didn't last. It couldn't. Charlie barely had the presence of mind to reach down and get his hand on Don's cock before Don was coming, spilling over his hand, his ass squeezing rhythmically on Charlie's cock so that Charlie could barely move, dragged along from Don's orgasm into his own.

Charlie slid his hand up to Don's chest and pressed his forehead against Don's back, lying still and waiting to catch his breath. He could feel Don's breathing, feel the pounding of his heart, the mingled sweat on their skin. Charlie's eyes slid shut, blissfully still.

He only opened them when something shifted, his hips or Don's, and his cock slid free of Don's body with a small wet sound. Don made a low noise of protest, and Charlie forced himself to peel away from Don enough to get the condom off. He couldn't spot a trash can from the bed, and couldn't really bear the thought of standing up, so he tied it off and tossed it into the heap of his boxers. They needed to be washed anyway.

Don was squirming away from him, flipping down onto his back, and Charlie didn't think that could be comfortable. He looked around again--the handcuff key was in his pants pocket.

"Hey, come back here," Don murmured, voice a sleepy rasp. "I'm not going anywhere right now, lie down."

Charlie gave up and nodded, settling down obediently, sprawling himself across Don, his head on one shoulder. Don squirmed a little, and Charlie knew he should be getting up, finding that key, looking after Don properly even when Don said he didn't have to. Don was hurt, Don hadn't been taking care of himself--Don had been planning for what he wanted to happen if he got himself killed.

It reminded Charlie of one of the more involved conversations he'd had with Kelley about Don, in the short span between deciding to come after him and actually leaving. He had her phone number programmed into his phone, he ought to call and check in with her and tell her that he was all right, and that Don was...

"Don," Charlie mumbled, aware simultaneously that this was a bad time to say it and that this might be the only time he could bring himself to say it. There might never be a safer moment.

"Hm?" Don sounded half asleep. He might not even hear, would probably just tell Charlie to shut up and go to sleep.

"You, um." Charlie cleared his throat. "I hope at some point you'll, um, you'll start being mad at me. For everything. Because if you don't start you won't stop."

He and Kelley had gone over and over that, Charlie's anger, and what it meant and didn't mean. Charlie listened to the steady thud of Don's heart under his ear, and wondered if Don really had fallen asleep, and then there was a disorienting flurry of movement. Charlie couldn't move fast enough to fight, couldn't think--and suddenly he was pinned under Don, his hips clutched between Don's thighs, Don's arm pulled up against his throat.

Safe as kittens, Charlie thought, dazed, brain spinning, and told himself not to struggle. It was Don.

Against his ear, in a very even voice, Don said, "You think I'm not mad at you?"

There was no right answer to that question. Charlie turned his head a little and rubbed his cheek against Don's arm, neither a nod or a headshake. Don's head pressed against his, and then Don shifted again, loosening his arm from around Charlie's throat but keeping him pressed to the mattress. Charlie carefully didn't do anything that would make Don think he wanted to move. Even cuffed to the bed Don could hold him here, would hold him here.

"I just can't," Don said softly, lips and breath soft on the back of Charlie's neck. "I can't be mad at you right now, not yet. Give me a few years. I'll start yelling about how you ruined my life in the middle of arguing about whose turn it was to do the dishes."

Charlie was glad Don was holding him down this way, because he felt dizzy, whiplashed by those few words--you ruined my life but also give me a few years. Don believed they would be arguing about the dishes, years from now, and that was all that mattered.

Almost all.

"Yeah, okay," Charlie said, brushing a kiss against Don's arm. "When you're ready, I'll have some things to yell back."

Don tensed, and Charlie raised a hand and squeezed his arm. "No, no, shh. Not yet. You're right. It can wait."

Don relaxed a little, pressing a kiss to Charlie's skin, letting out a breath that might have been thanks.

"For the record, though," Charlie added, settling his head comfortably against Don's bottom arm, letting his eyes drift shut. "As of now, it's your turn to do the dishes."

Don's breath puffed against the back of his neck, a silent laugh. "Why don't you just shut up and go to sleep?"

Don woke up alone, with his arms tucked under the pillow and the handcuffs lying open on the mattress in the spot where Charlie wasn't. Don could hear something that sounded like elevator music playing very softly, and then a blip of louder sound--the bright voice of a commercial testimonial--before a sudden silence. Charlie was watching TV, muting the commercials.

Charlie was watching TV while Don slept. Don reached out and touched the cuffs, feeling the sweet ache of restraint twinge through his shoulder, echoing the ache in his ass. Charlie had fucked him, Charlie had handcuffed him to the bed, Charlie.

Don smiled, frowned, smiled again. Charlie. God. This was going to be hard--this was going to be such a mess, and for six months his life had been simple. Shitty, maybe, but in a way that kept things pretty straightforward.

Except it was like Charlie said--they might as well still be in that basement. Don had been living like that for damned sure, waiting for someone to catch up with him, waiting to be arrested, waiting to be killed.

Waiting for Charlie.

Only Charlie was here now, and Charlie had fucked him, and nothing was over. Something had just started, something that wouldn't let Don skid along like this anymore. Something important. Everything important.

Don left the handcuffs where they were when he got up to face it.

Charlie had been sitting on Don's couch, watching The Weather Channel without actually absorbing any information, for nearly an hour before Don came out and sat down beside him. Don sat down close to him, but not quite touching, and didn't say anything. Charlie gave it the ten minutes between repetitions of the local weather, and then leaned sideways, resting his head on Don's shoulder.

Don's arm came around him, and Don said above him, over the Muzak playing behind the forecast, "Charlie, I should probably tell you..."

Charlie hit the mute button.

Don squeezed him a little. "I--I told you I can't come home."

Charlie nodded quickly, not lifting his head off Don's shoulder. "I get that. I spent enough time talking to Agent Henne--"

"Henne?"

Charlie nodded again.

"Poor bastard," Don muttered. "But, Charlie, I want you to know--it wasn't anything to do with you. I mean, I was looking for you, but the way I did that was my choice. I could have given the information to Henne, let it go through channels officially. I did it myself, and I--I committed a capital crime before I ever got to you. I was never going to be able to come home, no matter what."

Charlie blinked, staring at the television. On it, someone was clearing brush with an amazingly overpowered lawnmower he could buy in installments of $99.95 (plus S/H). Incest wasn't a capital crime, and everyone Charlie had seen Don kill had been, broadly speaking, a matter of self-defense. Don's arm around him was rigid with tension, and Charlie finally forced himself to say, "What...?"

Don blew out a breath, but didn't seem to relax at all. "Felony murder. I shot a man during the commission of another crime. I was working for a drug dealer, positioning myself. I was at a big buy--kilos of coke."

Charlie swallowed hard. Don had done that for him, done that to get to him. Just when Charlie thought he knew how much Don had given up for him, how much of Don's life he'd ruined, Don pulled the rug out from under him.

"If I were convicted in the state of Illinois I could face the death penalty," Don said quietly. "I don't--I'm telling myself it won't matter to you after everything else, but..."

"Don, of course it--" Charlie pushed away, turning to frame Don's face with his hands, forcing Don to meet his eyes. "Anything that could kill you matters to me. How likely are you to be convicted?"

Don's mouth worked silently for a second. "Charlie, do you hear what I'm saying to you? I killed--"

"I knew you'd killed people. I killed people to get us out of there. I'm asking you whether you're in danger."

Don could get farther away--over the border to Canada or Mexico; neither of them could speak remotely as much Spanish as they should have learned, growing up in LA, but they could probably manage if they had to. Would manage, if that was what it took to keep Don safe. They could go completely underground, Charlie could take another name, maybe find some secret way to keep publishing, maybe just give up math and learn to fish or run a cash register or whatever he had to do to keep Don, and keep him safe.

Don was watching him intently, and he seemed to see the decision trees Charlie was mapping, because some of his tension finally eased. He twisted in Charlie's grasp, pressing his lips to the ball of Charlie's thumb.

"Not much, I don't think," Don said. "Not unless I'm caught and encouraged to confess. My DNA and fingerprints are in the federal databases, so if I'd left any forensic evidence they'd already know it was me and they'd be working a hell of a lot harder to find me."

Charlie slid his hands down to Don's shoulders and leaned in for a quick kiss.

"Don't confess," Charlie said, looking into Don's eyes and reading nothing from Don's steady gaze. "If they ever... they can't do anything to really hurt me except hurt you. Don't ever give yourself up."

Don's hand curled around the back of Charlie's neck. Charlie let Don pull him closer, pressing their foreheads together. They were too close to meet each other's eyes, breath meeting between their mouths, but Don still didn't say anything. He wasn't going to promise Charlie anything, and Charlie couldn't let the silence stretch.

"I brought you something. Some things," he said softly, and when he pulled away Don let him go, his hand trailing down Charlie's shoulder as Charlie turned away.

Charlie went over to the table and picked up the cardboard box, his hands shaking a little. This was a stupid thing to be nervous about, but he had no idea what Don would think, what Don would say.

Don had stayed on the couch, watching him with a faintly curious expression, and Charlie smiled nervously as he walked back over with the box held carefully in both hands.

"You, um. You were always giving me things," Charlie said. "And I could never--and I missed your last birthday, too, and now it's coming up again, so. It's just some things."

Don smiled as he took the box, looking pleased and surprised, and Charlie's stomach tied into knots. He should have gotten something more, something better...

Don peeled back the flaps and froze, and Charlie winced. Don didn't look up, and Charlie couldn't read his stillness. He wanted to apologize, to explain, but Don's silence didn't give him an opening.

After a solid minute, Don put his hand into the box, as if he needed touch to confirm sight. "Charlie, this is your blanket."

Don had given it to him, and it wasn't that Charlie was giving it back, but it had been the only thing he had that he wanted to give to Don. Up until today, he hadn't even been sure he could do it. "I thought you might need it."

Don looked up at last, lips parted and eyes wide.

"Charlie."

His voice was soft, and Charlie knew Don knew exactly what Charlie wanted to give him, what he'd boxed up and handed to him. Don's voice cut through Charlie, and he shivered. "It gets cold in Detroit."

The room had to be eighty degrees, just short of making Charlie break out in a sweat where he sat. Even so, his palms were damp. But Don licked his lips and then smiled, leaned forward with the box in his lap and pressed a soft kiss to Charlie's mouth. "Yeah, I guess it does."

Charlie smiled, feeling ridiculously relieved. "There's other stuff, too."

Don sat back, flipping up the top fold of the blanket, and laughed, startled and happy. He lifted out the Snickers bar first--it had always been Don's favorite, just like Charlie had always liked M&Ms best, and Charlie had wanted Don to know he remembered. The candy bar squished a little in Don's grip, melted in the heat, and Don set it down carefully on the back of the couch before he lifted out a glossy slippery stack of comic books.

Don grinned. "This is weeks of reading material, Chuck."

Charlie bit his lip as he smiled back. "Well, you don't have to make them last so long now. You could go nuts."

Don nodded, and then started to pull the blanket out of the box, dropping the last item into his lap with a thump. Don frowned in bafflement, picked it up and shook it, and for a couple of seconds they both watched plastic snow settle over Dodger Stadium.

"I, uh. You kept buying me souvenirs everywhere we went," Charlie said. "I thought you should have something from LA."

Don set the snow globe carefully beside the candy bar, tossed the empty box onto the ground, and then pulled Charlie into his lap, the blanket bunched up between their legs, too warm on Charlie's skin.

"I've got something from LA," Don murmured in Charlie's ear.

Charlie kissed him and didn't point out that it wouldn't be that way for long.

Charlie jumped and then froze at the distant boom of an explosion (and then the long silent wait in the cold, flames flashing orange on the low clouds in the darkness, waiting, waiting, waiting). Don grabbed him (limping, leaning heavily, saying, "It's over," though that was a lie like everything) and shook him a little.

A rattle of further explosions sounded, and Don pulled Charlie close. Charlie didn't resist, mind numb, body gone boneless. Not back there, not again, not ever again, and he knew there were things he was supposed to do--a way he was supposed to breathe--but nothing came to him, driven out by the percussive sounds. Don's hand pressed tight to one of Charlie's ears, and his lips brushed the other.

After a while, the sounds made words. "Fireworks, buddy. Just fireworks. Over the river."

Charlie took a deep breath. "Fireworks," he parroted. He'd liked fireworks, once, though always with a low thrum of anxiety for wind patterns and wildfires. "Over the river."

"Yeah," Don said, moving a little, squirming, "Here, look."

He turned Charlie's head, and Charlie opened his eyes obediently as Don turned on the TV. Fireworks, over the river, flashing star patterns in red and white reflected on the dark water below.

"Canada's just across the river, you know," Don said softly. "Canada Day is the first of July, so Detroit and Windsor do a big joint fireworks thing over the river before the first. I forgot all about it somehow."

Charlie mustered up a smile for that. He should have remembered about fireworks, too. He and Kelley had had a whole talk about this, things he might find triggered reactions. Fireworks had been a big one--though Kelley had warned him more about people setting off firecrackers--but he'd forgotten, too. Somehow.

So he stayed where he was, half in Don's lap, watching the fireworks, and reminded himself that Don had come back to him that night. There had been the explosion, and the long wait, and even the words that weren't as true as they could have been, but then there was him and Don in the car, driving away, getting out.

The image of fireworks on the TV screen disappeared for a moment, replaced by a title graphic. Charlie smiled a little--he could still hear the explosions through the walls, but Don's arm was around him and Don's heart thumped steadily under his ear. "It's called the Freedom Festival."

"Yeah," Don said, tightening his arm. "That's the point, right?"

When Charlie woke up the next morning Don was gone, and so was the laptop that had, up to now, been an inert component of the bedside clutter. Charlie got up and followed the smell of coffee and the sound of keys clicking. Don was sitting at the card table with his back to Charlie and the bedroom--with his face to the door. There was a tension in his shoulders that said working even though he wasn't wearing a shirt.

The bruising on his back had gone yellow-green. Charlie carefully didn't press up against it as he leaned over Don's back, settling his hands on Don's shoulders.

Don slapped the laptop shut, and Charlie converted reading over Don's shoulder into reaching past him to steal a sip of his coffee. The heat of it soothed something that went cold in his chest. He and Don didn't work together anymore. He couldn't help Don with this, and he had his own life to get back to.

He set Don's coffee down carefully beside Don's hand, pressed his thumb into the tight muscle at the join between Don's shoulder and his neck. "I should probably get on the road soon," he said softly. "Can you draw me a map?"

"Yeah," Don said. He turned his head for a kiss, coffee-flavored and sweet and lingering, but his shoulder sagged under Charlie's hand with something that felt like relief.

Don followed Charlie all the way to the door, one hand hovering over Charlie's shoulder. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to push or to pull, and he couldn't tell whether Charlie's steps really dragged or just seemed to take forever.

When Charlie's hand fell on the doorknob, Don caught his shoulder instinctively.

Charlie turned his head, looking back, mouth open to ask a question Don didn't know how to answer. He couldn't ask Charlie to stay. He needed to get back to work, back to his life, because apparently he was going to need it for a while now. He also couldn't let Charlie just walk out the door and disappear on him again. Don tightened his grip on Charlie's shoulder instead, closing the gap between them so he was pressed up against Charlie's back.

Charlie didn't pull away, maybe even shifted his weight back into Don just slightly. Don brushed a kiss against the nape of Charlie's neck, pressing his nose into Charlie's hair. Charlie's head tipped forward, giving Don more skin to kiss, and Don let his lips just barely brush against it as he said, "How long are you going to be on the road?"

"Um," Charlie said. "Today?"

Don smiled. "How long until you get back to California?"

How long until Dad sees you? That was the crucial question, the one Don couldn't bring himself to ask out loud, not when he was thinking what he was starting to think.

Just one more, for the road.

"Oh," Charlie said, and Don ran the tip of his tongue along Charlie's skin, just above the collar of his shirt. Motivating him to give Don an answer.

"Oh," Charlie said. He cleared his throat. "Um, four days? Maybe five?"

"Okay," Don said, and then he closed his mouth on the back of Charlie's neck, sucking hard, making Charlie press back against him as he marked Charlie's skin. He could feel Charlie's hand clutching at his hip--not on the doorknob anymore. Charlie wasn't going anywhere just yet.

Don raised his head far enough to look at the spot he'd kissed, to see the small red bruise already darkening. He licked the spot, and Charlie rocked back against him. Charlie sounded breathless as he said, "Don, do that--do that again."

Don pushed Charlie's hair up, shifting to a spot just below the hairline, behind his ear. He used his teeth this time, and he heard Charlie's free hand slap against the door, bracing himself as he pushed back into the stinging kiss.

"Don," Charlie said, and as he licked the spot--hot under his tongue with blood rushing to the surface--Don was sliding his other hand across Charlie's belly, up under the hem of his shirt. Charlie ground back against him, and Don pushed forward, hard against Charlie's ass.

Charlie caught Don's hand, shoved it down across his skin, into the waistband of his jeans. Don bent his head to give Charlie another biting kiss, this one on his shoulder, just under the collar of his t-shirt. He palmed Charlie's cock through his boxers, and Charlie thrust into Don's touch.

"Don," Charlie said, his voice going strained. He twisted not away but into Don's grasp, and Don let him turn, settling his hands on Charlie's shoulders and pressing him into the door. Don kissed Charlie's mouth more carefully, just dragging his lips against Charlie's--couldn't mark him up so much it'd be obvious at gas stations and rest stops. Charlie struggled forward into the kiss, exhaling a little frustrated sound and pressing his tongue against Don's. Don smiled into the kiss and let him, but when Charlie's teeth raked over Don's lower lip, Don jerked back.

"Ah-ah," he breathed, holding Charlie still when he would have pushed forward again, and Charlie pouted at him, slick-lipped and wide-eyed.

"Take it easy on me, buddy," Don murmured. "You don't want bad guys staring at my mouth, do you?"

Charlie's gaze dropped. Charlie was staring at Don's mouth, and Don felt Charlie's attention, lips tingling, dick throbbing.

"Maybe it would provide you with a tactical advantage," Charlie said, sounding distant, distracted, almost calm. His eyes never wavered from Don's lips.

Don grinned, sliding his hands inward from Charlie's shoulders, palming his collarbones.

"Maybe I'd get distracted by them looking, though. Maybe I don't want anybody looking but you."

Charlie's chin jerked up, his eyes going wide as he met Don's gaze, startled and pleased. Don had to look away, watching his own hands against Charlie's t-shirt.

"Just have to keep it out of sight," Don murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to the back of Charlie's jaw, just under his ear. His hands closed in, thumbs meeting in the notch at the base of Charlie's throat, rubbing gently at the thin skin over the bones. He could feel Charlie's pulse pounding there. Charlie's breath was coming quick under his hands. Don slid one finger under the collar of Charlie's shirt, finding the spot on Charlie's shoulder that he'd marked.

Charlie jerked against him when Don scraped a fingernail over the fresh bruise, and this time Don could feel Charlie's dick, hard against his hip. Don's hips pushed against Charlie in answer, his own dick just as hard and finding friction against Charlie's body. Don's lips dragged against Charlie's throat, and he really couldn't send Charlie out on the road like that. If he could bear to send him at all, because Don wasn't entirely sure he could pry his hands off Charlie now.

Charlie rubbed against Don, up and down like he was bouncing on his toes, and Charlie's fingers crept under the hem of Don's shirt. Don slid his own hands down Charlie's chest, down his sides, until he could push Charlie's t-shirt up and get his hands on bare skin. He dug his fingernails in just above the top of Charlie's boxers, and Charlie's fist clenched in Don's shirt, Charlie's hips bucking hard.

"Don--" Charlie's voice was half-choked, and Don eased up, rubbing his fingertips over the skin he'd abused.

"You'd better plan on kissing that better," Charlie said, breathless.

"Oh, is that what you want me to kiss?" Don pressed his mouth to Charlie's for a second, and Charlie jerked his head back, teeth snapping on air with a sharp click.

"Not really," Charlie gasped. "Not--I mean, if we're prioritizing--"

"Definitely," Don murmured, shifting his hands, hooking his thumbs into the front of Charlie's boxers but making no move to undo his jeans just yet. "You have to have a firm grasp of priorities."

"Right, okay," Charlie said, his hand shifting fast, fingers down the side of Don's jeans, two fingernails curling hard into Don's skin--into Don's tattoo, and Don shuddered at Charlie's perfect aim.

"How about a firm grasp of my dick," Charlie breathed, punctuating the words with a hard kiss, and Don grinned into it and then broke the contact to drop to his knees. Charlie had asked, and Don would always give Charlie what he asked for.

Not that he had to hurry up about it. Charlie wasn't going anywhere just yet.

Don settled his hands on Charlie's hips, pressing him back against the door. He pushed the hem of Charlie's t-shirt up with his thumbs, mouthing at the strip of skin exposed, soft and bare above the points of his hips, rough with hair above his fly. He pressed a close-mouthed kiss to every fingernail mark.

Charlie tried to push into the touch of Don's mouth and Don pushed back automatically, shoulders flexing to hold Charlie back. Charlie dropped one hand onto Don's head, fingers sliding into his hair, flexing against his scalp, and at the same time he curled a hand around Don's wrist. Not pushing off his grip, just holding on.

"Don." All the easy bossiness was gone from Charlie's voice. It was a plea this time, almost--but not quite--more than Don could bear to hear from him. He pushed against Don's hands again, and Don felt muscle tighten under his mouth.

"You're not," Charlie gasped, and Don caught skin between his teeth, bit down just hard enough to make Charlie's breath catch--and then a little harder, enough to make a mark, make Charlie shake silently under his hands.

Charlie's breath was ragged when it started up again. He tugged at Don's hair, and for a moment Don just ignored the prickle of pain, sucking at Charlie's skin--he'd be marked up for days, he'd know every time he looked at himself, he'd remember this--but Charlie kept pulling. Don finished one last rough kiss and then let go, tipping his head back to meet Charlie's eyes.

"You're not playing fair," Charlie whined, betrayed by the dazed smile on his face. He'd been trying that line on Don his whole life, but he'd usually put a little more effort into selling it.

Don shook his head, smiling back. "Fuck fair."

He lowered his head and breathed against the front of Charlie's jeans, not quite mouthing at the strained bulge behind the denim. Charlie twitched and the rough fabric brushed Don's lips. Charlie's hand tightened in his hair, but Don wasn't pulling away, wasn't even considering it.

"Please," Charlie breathed, hips jerking again, like he was on the edge, like it'd been a hell of a lot more than twelve hours. Like he needed this.

Don needed it too, exactly like Charlie did. He could feel and see and smell how badly Charlie needed this--needed Don's mouth, needed Don--and the knowledge hit him like a drug. It was real all over again, like Charlie had just gotten here: Charlie needed him, so badly he'd hunted him down and come all this way for this, for him. Don had been hard, but now he was aching, heart pounding, his grip on Charlie faltering as his hands started to shake.

"Charlie," Don gasped, pressing his mouth against Charlie's jeans, breathing hot against the fabric.

Charlie made an animal noise, his hand releasing Don's wrist, knuckles rough against Don's face as he undid his own pants, shoving them down. Don got his hands on Charlie's boxers, tugging them down just far enough to get Charlie's cock out, closing one hand around it--not loose or tight, just holding on. Charlie thrust into his grip, but Don dragged it out for one last second, pressing wet kisses to Charlie's hip, the top of his thigh, as Charlie's cock moved in his hand.

Charlie's hand tugged gently at Don's hair, and Don nodded a little, turning his head. He let his lips part slowly over Charlie's cock, taking just the head into his mouth, sucking gently as he pressed his tongue to the tip. Charlie's hand tightened in his hair, but Don wasn't going to be rushed now, when he was exactly where he wanted to be.

The taste of Charlie was almost chokingly rich on his tongue, Charlie's cock heavy and hot in his mouth. Don jerked his hand up and down the shaft, sucking at the head, and he felt the moment Charlie gave in to it, his hand going limp in Don's hair. Like a radio tuning in, Don caught the sound of Charlie repeating his name over and over on every breath, "Don, Don, Don..."

Don let his mouth slide down until his lips met his fist, working his tongue against the underside of Charlie's cock. Charlie thrust into Don's mouth roughly, almost gagging him and pulling back just as fast, making an incoherent apologetic noise. Don pulled off to take one deep breath and then closed his mouth on Charlie's cock again, letting his hand fall away as he took him deeper. Don let his hand rest on Charlie's hip for a moment, and he could feel Charlie's careful stillness, the way Charlie wasn't thrusting into his mouth.

He sucked hard and then soft, pulling off and going back down, until Charlie was shaking with restraint, and then Don dropped the hand he had curled around the base of Charlie's cock. He pressed his palm to Charlie's thigh, just above the elastic of his boxers, and slid it around until his thumb was under the curve of Charlie's ass. When he pressed his fingers against the back of Charlie's thigh, he could feel the tension of the muscle, rock solid and holding perfectly still.

Don made a low encouraging sound, deep in his throat, and dug his fingernails into Charlie's skin. Charlie jerked forward, driving his cock hard into Don's mouth, and Don opened up the best he could, riding it out. Don didn't relax his grip on Charlie's thigh, and Charlie pulled back only to slam in again. Don kept his eyes closed and his throat open, letting Charlie fuck his mouth. Charlie's fingers caught in his hair, holding tight, and couldn't help moaning again around Charlie's cock.

Don was aware of Charlie's thrusts getting wilder, Charlie's hands tightening harder in his hair, Charlie's voice above him getting more frantic. That was exactly the point of this, though, so Don ignored anything that might have been a warning, leaning in closer, tilting his head in Charlie's grip to get a decent angle. He knew he was breathing sometimes, because the air stung his throat, but he'd lost all track of time before Charlie was coming down his throat, on his tongue. Don had to pull off, finally, and felt the splash of come on his cheek.

"Sorry, sorry," Charlie was gasping, and then he was falling to his knees in front of Don, his chest against Don's. Don closed his arms around Charlie automatically, and Charlie was brushing fingers over his cheek, ghosting kisses against Don's still-open mouth.

"I think, um," Charlie murmured. "I think people are going to stare. Sorry. Sorry."

Don bent his lips into a smile, finally remembering to open his eyes, and Charlie looked happy and a little dazed, and he was still looking at Don's mouth.

"Good," Don managed, his voice just a rasp, and then his eyes snapped shut again.

Charlie was unbuttoning his jeans. Don bit down hard down hard on his lower lip, tingling and almost raw, as Charlie pulled down the zipper. He'd been almost unconscious of his own hard-on with Charlie's dick in his mouth, it was hardly even about that, but now Charlie's hand was pushing into his pants, wrapping around his dick. Don couldn't help shoving into his grip, hissing a breath out with his teeth still tight on his lip.

Charlie's mouth brushed his again, Charlie's tongue tracing the sharp line where Don's teeth dug into his lip.

"Easy," Charlie breathed, hot against Don's skin. "Hey, hey."

Don just shook his head. He couldn't help trying to hold back, but Charlie knew him, and he was too close, wanted this too badly to make it last. He came in Charlie's grasp, a choked sound escaping his mouth. Charlie muffled it with a kiss, easing Don through it.

Don opened his mouth as Charlie finally let go. He was sagging back on his heels, staring down at Charlie's hands, and his mouth was just a little too far from his brain for him to say anything about it as he watched Charlie wipe his hand on the front of his own t-shirt.

Charlie looked down at his own hand as soon as he'd done it, turning it palm up and frowning like his hand was a strange object he'd just discovered at the end of his wrist.

"Um," Charlie said. "I probably didn't want to do that."

Don laughed a little, wincing at the sound and feel of his own voice even as he did. Fuck, maybe his tips would still be good enough tomorrow, or maybe he could find someone else who wasn't an idiot to pass them off to today, but he wasn't getting any work done any time soon.

"Here," Don said, pushing up to his feet and pulling Charlie up after him. "Come on, you can borrow a shirt, I did laundry this week."

Charlie was pulling his shirt off as they walked back to the bedroom, and Don steered him with a hand on his side, only letting himself enjoy the feeling in passing. Charlie had to leave. But with his shirt off and his jeans sagging open, Don could see every mark he'd left all over Charlie's body, could feel the scratch of Charlie's fingernails on his hip and the ache in his ass. Neither of them was getting away clean this time.

Don rummaged through his dresser drawer until he found a plain gray shirt, nothing anyone but Charlie would recognize as belonging to him. It was one of his favorites, washed dozens of times and already starting to lose its stitching at the hem. Charlie took it from him and offered his own crumpled shirt in return.

Don took it with a small nod. "I'll wash it for you, you can get it back..."

Charlie was nodding back as his head popped out of the collar of Don's shirt, even as he tugged it down and his jeans up. "Next time I see you."

"Yeah," Don said. There was going to be a next time, somehow. They were going to do this, keep doing this. He wasn't sure it was supposed to be this scary, but the pounding of his heart felt like being alive, too.

Charlie nodded again, decisively, and then stepped in and kissed Don lightly, letting his hand rest on top of Don's, holding the dirty shirt. "I can let myself out."

Don nodded and let him go, waiting until he heard the front door close to go and turn the locks.

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