What Happens in Vegas

by Dira Sudis

Disclaimer: Charlie, Don, and Numb3rs belong to Cheryl Heuton, Nicolas Falacci, and some people at CBS who aren't me.

Beta thanks to Iulia, and additional props to Auvi for informing me that I could do better than that one sentence!

Megan strolled up, holding a glass of something bright pink with a cherry in it, and said, "You should probably go check on your brother."

Don looked toward the blackjack tables, where he'd last seen Charlie. There was a huge crowd gathered around one table now, more than big enough to hide a single math genius taking the house for everything it had. "Shit. Thanks."

"No problem," Megan said, angling toward his slot machine. Don gave her a suspicious sideways look and swept his depleted stack of quarters into his pocket before he gave up his spot and headed toward Charlie. He left his half-finished beer on top of the machine; he had a feeling he might need his hands free.

He heard Charlie's voice--not slurred, but a little too bright and loud--when he reached the outer ring of the crowd around the table. "Oh no, no no no, I will hold, thank you very much. Yes. You may not think I should hold on seventeen, but in this situation I--yes, I will hold. Thank you."

Don rolled his eyes and started working his way through the crowd, muttering, "Excuse me, sorry," as insincerely as he knew how, physically pushing aside a woman who'd plastered herself against Charlie's back. He set a hand on Charlie's shoulder and leaned forward to speak into his ear, glancing across the table at the dealer, who did not look at all pleased as he dealt himself a nine to tip his total to twenty-three. "Hey, buddy," Don murmured, "Remember how we talked about you using your powers only for good?"

Charlie turned his head, blinking at Don, and said, "Hey, Don," with a broad smile and a wave of alcoholic fumes. "Where've you been? I've been having a lucky streak, you missed it."

"Yeah," Don said, and he didn't need a whiff of Charlie to know he was drunk: the fact that he'd forgotten to lose approximately as much as he won made it obvious enough. "Well, how about you cash out now? I'm heading up to the hotel, you can come with me."

Charlie opened his mouth, his eyebrows going up as he leaned toward Don, and Don tightened his hand hard on Charlie's shoulder, turning his head to give the dealer a little nod. The dealer nodded unsmilingly back, putting the cards away while Don shoveled Charlie's chips into the pocket of his suit jacket. Charlie was frowning intently when Don stole another glance at him, and said, "You're still wearing your tie, Don."

Charlie wasn't. Charlie had taken his tie off as soon as their presentation was finished, crumpling it up and shoving it into his pocket. "Okay," he'd said, "so this is the part where we have fun, right? You promised there would be a fun part." And Don had had a talk with him about how casinos didn't like people who won all their money off them, and Charlie had rolled his eyes and promised to behave, and that had held up--Don glanced at his watch--longer than he'd expected it to, really, what with the free drinks. He'd been at the slots longer than he thought.

Don towed Charlie toward the cash-out window as the crowd of spectators dispersed, and said, "Have you actually eaten anything today?"

"Peanuts," Charlie said, "on the plane. Megan gave me hers. Some people share, y'know."

Don rolled his eyes and pushed Charlie up against the wall, where he slumped loosely while Don dumped out a ridiculous number of chips on the counter and pushed them into the little bulletproof-glass box. "Giving you my food is not actually a requirement of sharing, Charlie. I didn't get any breakfast either."

Charlie waved his hand as though this were entirely irrelevant, and Don watched the hands of the cashier counting out hundreds--yeah, he'd been at the slots way too long--as he said, "Anyway, you had a chance to eat lunch. You do lectures for a living, I don't know why this was any different."

"Usually my audience isn't so armed," Charlie replied. Don picked up Charlie's money and tucked it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, opening his mouth to point out that virtually no one at the law enforcement conference had actually been armed either, but Charlie ducked his head and muttered, "Plus, you're not usually there."

Don pulled Charlie off the wall and aimed him toward the exits, slinging an arm around his shoulders. He didn't really have an argument against that one.

Charlie went quiet after that, just leaning a little against Don until they got out the front doors and onto the strip. The sun was down--though you couldn't exactly say it was dark--and the air was getting chilly the way it did in the desert at night. Charlie pressed closer to him, and when Don looked at his face Charlie was looking down the street with a spacy smile. "Neon," he muttered, and Don didn't even want to know what he was calculating.

"Come on," he said, raising his arm to hook gently around Charlie's neck, pulling him in the opposite direction. "Hotel. Bed."

Charlie snickered, and Don rolled his eyes and dropped his arm, but Charlie followed him without stumbling, all the way to their hotel.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a packed elevator, not saying a word. A group of women were giggling and teasing each other, louder and louder as they went up. Don had to push Charlie out ahead of him at their floor. Charlie leaned against his back as Don opened the door of the room they were sharing--and he obviously hadn't thought that through well enough, what with the free drinks. Charlie's hand was working its way around his side, sliding into the open front of his jacket.

Don caught Charlie's wrist, tugging him around and shoving him backward through the open door and into their room. "Go on," he said gruffly, "get to bed."

Charlie gave him a dopey grin and stumbled backward until he hit the nearer bed, collapsing back onto it and sprawling out. Don went over to the other bed, where his suitcase was lying open, not looking at Charlie being an idiot a few feet away. He sorted aimlessly through the contents, wondering if he could get Charlie to stay in the room without babysitting him, or if there was any way he might convince Megan to let him sleep next door in her room. He didn't think she was coming back any time soon, though; the slots really sucked you in.

"Awww, come on," Charlie mumbled from the other bed. "No bedtime story? No kiss goodnight? I come all the way to Vegas with you and impress all your colleagues for you and you don't even let me play high stakes poker or go see Elvis or do anything fun..."

Don looked up, and Charlie was lying spread-eagled on the bed, his nearer hand and foot hanging off. He had his face toward Don but his eyes were barely open, just the smallest shine underneath his eyelashes. The light of the lamp fell directly on his face, his cheeks pink and his shirt open down to his collarbone. Don knew he should go with the bedtime story option, but he didn't think he could talk.

He hadn't spent nearly enough time drinking over the slots to excuse it, but Don stepped around his bed and went to lean over Charlie, pressing a kiss to his forehead. When he tried to straighten up, Charlie caught him by his tie, hauling him down, and squirmed up to kiss his mouth. Don stumbled, catching himself with a hand against the bed, his mouth driven hard against Charlie's, open and wet, their tongues brushing. Charlie's mouth tasted sweet, like those drinks with fruit and umbrellas, and it took all his strength to push up and away, wrenching Charlie's hand off his tie and stumbling away to the window.

He tugged the curtain aside with a shaky hand, so he could look out at the neon and try to get a grip, and it was a sorry commentary on his life when Vegas was the best he could do for a hold on reality. "We're not doing this, Charlie."

"Mmm," Charlie said, sounding sleepy or unconvinced, and either way the sound went straight to Don's groin. He gritted his teeth and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. "You know, I worry about your tendency to make statements that flatly contradict observed reality," Charlie murmured. "What with your job involving as much deductive reasoning as it does."

Don turned to lean his shoulder against the window, crossing his arms and squinting at Charlie. "Are you actually drunk at all, or did you just start showing off to see if you could get my attention?"

Charlie's hand rose and stabbed a pointing finger unerringly in his direction, though his eyes had slid all the way shut now. "Specious argument, false dichotomy," Charlie said. "Drunk and showing off. You gotta think outside the box, Don."

"Yeah, well, maybe I like thinking inside the box," Don muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face, telling himself he should turn away, he should get out of the room, he should do anything but stand here and listen to Charlie talk, look at Charlie lying there. He didn't move. "Why's it seem like whenever you want me to start thinking outside the box it's so I can do something illegal, or immoral, or--"

Charlie waved a hand. "Questions of motivation get into psychology, and that's tricky stuff. I try to stay away from the mushy sciences."

Don smiled despite himself. "Don't let Megan hear you calling psychology a mushy science."

Charlie's eyes opened wide and he smiled, and Don couldn't breathe. Charlie said, "See, now, you could always ask Megan. Or you could've asked Terry, too. You seem to have an affinity for women who could tell you exactly what was wrong with you if you could only ask them without ending up on a sex offender registry."

"Not just me," Don said, trying to be irritated with Charlie. It was kind of true, though. More truth than he'd probably get from Charlie on this topic sober, and he knew that shouldn't make this feel any less wrong, but his resolve was crumbling under Charlie's eyes.

Charlie nodded agreeably. "Don't you think that's funny, how we're apparently both offending each other mutually? I'm an offender, you're an offender--who's offended, again?"

"Public decency, I think," Don said, and Charlie rolled into a sitting position, liquid-smooth and faster than Don would have expected. "Or better yet, nobody, because I am serious, Charlie, we're not--"

Charlie shook his head as he stood up, which made him wobble, which made Don take two involuntary steps forward, so that Charlie crashed into his arms, pressing up against him, hard and solid and undeniable in his arms. "Yeah, except we are and you know it."

Don took a breath, his chest pressing against Charlie's as he inhaled, and Charlie smelled like booze and sugar and the same shampoo he'd been using since he was fifteen. "Charlie," he muttered, staring into Charlie's bright eyes, because it was true, he did know it, and he really hadn't drunk enough for this. He usually managed to be stupider. He'd always thought not being stupid might be a deterrent, but apparently not. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," he said against Charlie's lips, the famous last words of his rationality. "Okay?"

Charlie smiled against his mouth and ground his hips against Don's, and Charlie was as hard as he was. "Sure," Charlie whispered, tugging Don's tie off. "Whatever you say, bro."

Don slid his hand into Charlie's hair, cradling his head as he kissed him hard enough to shut him up for a minute and steered them back toward the bed. Charlie's fingers were in the collar of his shirt, stroking his throat, and Don shivered and moaned into Charlie's mouth, pushing Charlie down and going down with him, because he couldn't let go for even a second. Charlie's hand was sliding down his shirt and Don kissed him hard enough to hurt a little, because it shouldn't feel so good when he knew better. Unless he was drunk off the taste of vodka and pineapple from Charlie's mouth, he didn't know why the hell he was doing this tonight.

They were in Vegas, though, so maybe this time didn't count any more than the times he'd been drunk, the times Charlie had been crying, the times they'd both been shaking with adrenaline. Maybe Vegas was an exception. Don jerked Charlie's shirt free, sliding one hand up under it, over the heat of Charlie's skin, feeling the quick rise and fall of Charlie's breathing against his palm. He let his mouth slide away from Charlie's, dragging his lips down the scratch of Charlie's cheek, and the sting of it made him grind down against Charlie's hand as much as the sudden sound of Charlie gasping in his ear.

Charlie arched up under him, pressing his head back against Don's hand, sliding his hand to Don's hip, pulling down as he pushed his dick up against Don's. Don had to close his eyes, sliding his own hand back down toward Charlie's pants, and God, they were both still wearing their suit coats, his heart was racing and it had to be a million degrees. Charlie whispered, "Yeah, how about that whole naked thing we've all heard so much about?"

Don pushed up when Charlie's hand pressed against his chest, getting to his knees. He started to go further, but Charlie scrambled up, catching his arm, and muttered, "Oh no no no, you are not going far enough to start arguing with me again, mister."

"Agent, actually," Don muttered, leaning in obediently to kiss Charlie and unbuttoning his own shirt before he got started on Charlie's.

"See, but I never make you call me Doctor," Charlie said, sliding his hands into Don's shirt, pushing it and his suit coat back together until they caught at his wrists. Don waited with his hands trapped at his sides, wondering if he should try to get out of it or let Charlie free him, but Charlie just leaned in, kissing down Don's throat, his hands sliding down Don's chest to his belt. Somehow he always let himself forget how Charlie stayed good with his hands right up to the moment he passed out.

Don closed his eyes, trying to remember what Charlie had been saying. Doctor. "Well, no," he muttered, as Charlie's teeth scraped his skin and Charlie's fingers slid under the waistband of his jockeys, "Because that would be kinky and weird."

Charlie giggled against his throat and tugged his belt off with a single quick motion, and Don shuddered. Charlie's lips dragged against his skin as he fumbled at the button on Don's pants, and then Charlie pushed him backward, down onto his elbows, and leaned low over him. His hair brushed Don's chest as he worked to free Don's hands, and Charlie muttered, "I'm sorry, Don, did I miss the part of this that isn't kinky and weird?"

"Yeah," Don said breathlessly, and his dick was throbbing in his not-quite unzipped pants, but Charlie's hands were way over on his wrist. He rubbed his thigh against Charlie's, just to have friction somewhere. "Maybe if you weren't quite so distractible."

"Mmm, well," Charlie muttered, finally getting the button off Don's left wrist, tugging shirt and jacket free of his hand and quickly stripping off his watch as well, tossing it off the bed. "I'm told that's one of my charms."

Don reached up and started again on the buttons of Charlie's shirt, working blind and left-handed and distracted as hell, as Charlie shifted his knee higher between Don's legs, not quite close enough to push against, just close enough to tease. "Yeah," Don said, feeling his way down Charlie's chest, pressing his knuckles to skin, "Well, people who find you charming would certainly say so."

Charlie froze, and leaned up far enough to meet Don's eyes, head tilted, gaze steady and almost clear. "What, you don't find me charming?"

"Charming?" Don repeated, and lowered his gaze, trying to tug his right hand free, turning his left hand over to run up Charlie's chest, making him shiver with a not-quite-tickle. "No, buddy, you don't charm me." He slid his hand up to the nape of Charlie's neck, pulling him down to kiss, and Charlie's mouth still opened for his. It didn't matter a goddamn bit what he said out loud, when Charlie's teeth scraped against his lips and his tongue pushed inside, because he could never stay away.

"You drive me out of my fucking mind," he whispered raggedly against Charlie's ear when he had to stop to breathe. "It's a whole different thing."

Charlie's fingers fumbled the button off his wrist, finally, shoving away his shirt and jacket, and both his hands were free. Don pulled Charlie down against him, fell back and let Charlie's weight press him to the bed, spreading his thighs to cradle Charlie's hips. Charlie wriggled out of his coat as Don cupped his cheeks, kissing him slow and soft while Charlie's hips thrust hard against his. Charlie grabbed his wrist, and Don could feel his own pulse when Charlie's fingertips pressed against it, and that was weird and probably meaningful, how he didn't know himself until Charlie pushed him.

Charlie's lips broke from his with a wet hot sound and Charlie said, "Hey, hey," against his mouth, tugging Don's hand away from his face. "Hey, we're not there yet."

Don groaned and closed his eyes, let Charlie push away from him entirely--it was cold in this stupid hotel room without Charlie pressed against him, the desert always got cold at night--and dragged a hand over his face. "You and your elaborate plans."

"Yes," Charlie said, and when Don peeked through his fingers he was unbuttoning the cuffs of his own shirt, learning from Don's mistakes, typical little brother. "Yes, you have no idea how elaborate my plans are. They're probably even diabolical."

"Definitely diabolical," Don said, reaching down and unzipping his own damn pants, sliding a hand over his dick through the soft fabric of his jockeys, since Charlie was way over there six inches away, not touching him. When he looked up at Charlie, his eyes were dark and intent and riveted on Don's fingers. He grinned and took his hand away, because the only thing better than teasing himself was teasing Charlie, and rolled to his feet as his pants sagged halfway off. "Shaving kit?"

"It's like you're reading my mind," Charlie said, grinning as he pulled his shoes off, but Don just walked over to the bathroom, because meaning to stop was no reason not to observe the pattern of the past. Charlie liked to fuck: Charlie brought supplies.

Don caught a glimpse of himself in the dim reflection of the bathroom mirror, Charlie's kit in his hands, and hesitated. It should have been sobering, it should have been the moment that reminded him that this was terribly wrong and he had to stop. If there were a twelve-step program for fucking your brother, he should at least want to lock himself in the bathroom and call it right about now. But he couldn't sober up much further than he was, and still he had that same dopey grin on his face that Charlie had been wearing since they stepped into the room. So much for rational thinking saving the day. He should have known that if Charlie couldn't think their way out of this, he didn't have a chance himself.

He toed off his shoes as he stepped back out of the bathroom, pausing in the doorway because Charlie was lying sprawled on a hotel bed, bedspread rumpled but still not turned down, naked except for his black dress socks. He was propped up on his elbows, his dick standing, his eyes and his smile just waiting for Don. Don shook his head, bending over to take his own socks off first, before he dropped his pants and peeled off his jockeys. He took the two steps to the near side of the bed and slid onto its surface, dropping the lube and condom on the nightstand. Charlie rolled toward him and they met chest to chest, dick to dick, mouth to mouth, Charlie's arms sliding around his shoulders as Don slid a knee between his thighs. They were both smiling almost too much to kiss, lips and teeth glancing against each other, tongues flickering, and Don whispered, "You're a dork, you know that?"

Charlie huffed a laugh against his mouth, his hand sliding down Don's side, and said, "My feet get cold," as his hand found Don's dick, closing tight around him and giving him a hard stroke that made Don lose his breath. "Anyway," Charlie muttered, his mouth against Don's throat, "it's one of my--things that drives you out of your fucking mind."

Don jerked against Charlie's hand, sliding his own hand down to Charlie's ass and squeezing, for lack of words. Charlie licked a stripe up his throat and came away smiling open-mouthed, and Don reached for the stuff on the nightstand. Charlie eased his grip on Don, just sliding his thumb up and down Don's dick, and Don kissed him, slow and deep and wet, as he pulled Charlie's top leg over his own hip.

Charlie took his hand away as Don popped the top of the lube bottle, leaning his head back on the bedspread. "Funny how you always say it's the last time but then you always remember whose turn it is."

Don slicked his fingers, looking down Charlie's body, shifting a little so their dicks touched and Charlie's breath hitched. "Just because I think this is a bad idea doesn't mean I'm not paying attention," he muttered, running one wet finger down the crack of Charlie's ass.

Charlie shivered and pushed back against his touch and muttered, "Actually, that's--exactly--" Don's fingertip pressed inside, and he pushed no further for a second, rocking his finger and sliding his thumb against the spot behind Charlie's balls, watching the rapid flutter of Charlie's eyelashes, the brightening flush on his cheeks, until Charlie caught a breath and said, "Exactly what it means."

Don's finger slid home and he whispered, "Oh yeah?" against Charlie's mouth, his dick throbbing in sympathy with his finger, gripped tight and hot, and when Charlie shuddered he could feel how hard Charlie was, pressing back against him.

"Yeah," Charlie gasped, "It's--observed reality--I mean--" Don crooked his finger and Charlie's words broke off in a wordless noise, fading into a whine as Don pulled his finger back out. He pushed two back in--easy, Charlie's body welcoming him like he belonged there--and Charlie's hand stroked restlessly against his chest, Charlie's thumb circling his nipple. Don leaned in and kissed him again as he worked his fingers inside him, and Charlie licked into his mouth and said, "You've gotta stop denying the evidence," against his lips.

Don twisted his fingers until Charlie's grip tightened on his shoulder, and he said, "Yeah, I'll work on that," as his hips jerked involuntarily. He wanted to fuck Charlie and he wanted to be Charlie, and it was bad, very bad, to be already looking forward to his next turn, instead of just remembering his last one. He pulled his fingers free to stop himself thinking of anything at all, reaching for the condom and fumbling with the foil packet and his slippery fingers until Charlie reached back, took it from his hand, and ripped it open with his teeth.

"Charming," Don groaned as Charlie rolled it onto him--good with his hands, it really wasn't fair how good he was with his hands--and Charlie laughed.

"Now I'm charming." Don rescued the lube bottle from where he'd dropped it behind Charlie, and then pushed Charlie over, turning him onto his other side.

"Now you're a Nobel laureate, whatever you want," Don promised, slicking himself as Charlie threw a leg over him and squirmed into place.

"You know I--" and then Don was lined up and he couldn't wait for Charlie to say what he probably didn't know, he was pressing in with his face against the back of Charlie's neck and his eyes squeezed shut because it was so good, too good to bear. He didn't know how he ever forgot this, the way they fit together, the way it felt, like nothing else.

Time had to pass, but when he was all the way in, his whole body tight against Charlie's so that he could feel the pounding of Charlie's heart and his own everywhere they touched, Charlie said, "--m going to start thinking you don't mean a word you say to me," in a high, breathless voice, like he hadn't been interrupted at all.

Don wrapped his hand around Charlie's dick, sliding just far enough to feel the slickness of leftover lube on his fingers as he licked Charlie's throat. "Course I mean it," he said, not moving at all except for his hand, short slow strokes on Charlie's dick, slippery and easy, trailing his thumb just behind the head. "I always mean it."

He didn't have to move; Charlie moved against him, around him, thrusting into his hand, clenching on his dick. The rocking of Charlie's hips settled into a slow rhythm, and Don followed where Charlie led, fucking him with minute motions as Charlie fucked his fist, trailing kisses down the back of Charlie's neck. He set his teeth to the skin at the juncture of his shoulder, and Charlie gasped and went still, so still Don could feel him moving, the race of his heart and the vibration of every muscle. He bit down just hard enough, tightened his hand in one hard stroke. Charlie came for him, shaking into motion, and Don couldn't be still anymore.

He kept his hand around Charlie's dick, still jerking him, as he rolled Charlie onto his stomach. He leaned his forehead against Charlie's shoulder and braced his weight on his arm and started to move, fucking Charlie for real, harder with every thrust. Charlie moaned into the pillow and pushed up against him, and Don felt his own sweat running against Charlie's as he slid deep and hard, as Charlie's body met his with every motion. He felt Charlie's fingers moving against his face, Charlie's knuckle pressing at the corner of his mouth, and only then could he hear himself gasping out words--"I mean it, Charlie, I always,"--and he closed lips and tongue and teeth on Charlie's finger as he came, sunk deep.

Charlie's hand moved away when he opened his mouth to breathe, fingertips tracing an awkward caress against his cheek. Don slid his own sticky hand up under Charlie's stomach, where he could feel every breath Charlie took compressing it against the bed. He laid his cheek against Charlie's shoulder, thinking he should move, but then Charlie would say something if he wanted him to.

He felt a brief flurry of motion--Charlie's feet rubbing together--and realized he was kicking off his socks just as Charlie said, "Okay, warm now."

Don smiled and gave up on worrying about anything for a little while. They were in Vegas. Weirder things happened here.

Megan walked up to his desk, two days later, with a postcard in her hand. The picture on the front was all bright pink and neon, and on the back it said EXHIBIT A in Charlie's handwriting. "Seriously," she said, "did you guys fight? Did you accuse him of having a drinking problem or something stupid like that?"

Don stared at the postcard, addressed to him at the office, postmarked the day they'd flown home. He'd woken up before Charlie and bolted for the shower, and Charlie had disappeared before he got out, turning up at the airport ten minutes before their flight. "Because if it's something stupid it's gotta be me, huh?"

When he looked up, Megan just shrugged. "Let's say I'm playing the odds."

EXHIBIT C, EXHIBIT H, and EXHIBIT J showed up in his mailbox by the end of the day, and he drove to his apartment after work out of sheer morbid curiosity. B, D, F, G, and I were in his mailbox there. He changed clothes, glanced at his empty fridge, and then gave up the ghost and headed to the house, dread and anticipation mixing badly in his stomach.

His dad looked up when he walked in, and reached for something on the table beside his chair. Don winced as he walked over, and took the postcard from his father's outstretched hand. The picture was a line of high-kicking showgirls, and the back said EXHIBIT E. When Don dared to look up, his dad was smiling and said, "I don't want to know what that's all about, do I?"

Don shoved the postcard into his pocket and said, "No, you really don't. Charlie in the garage?"

"Where else?" his dad asked absently, already looking back down to his book, and Don headed out the back door without looking back.

He let himself into the garage and latched the door behind him and said, "Okay, so--you bought the postcards and wrote them out and mailed them, in Vegas, and they didn't stay in Vegas, therefore what happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. You've cleverly demolished my logical argument."

"Well, it's getting easier," Charlie said, "I mean, the whole It's Illegal debate was much more challenging."

"Only in the sense that you lost," Don said, leaning against the door. Charlie dropped his chalk and turned to face him.

"That was a draw," Charlie said firmly. "I couldn't demonstrate that it's not illegal and you couldn't demonstrate that either of us actually care."

Don ran a hand through his hair, trying to remember his other objections. "It would kill Dad?"

"If he found out," Charlie said, leaning against the chalkboard, the surest possible sign that he'd been out here doodling while he waited for Don. "Which is a complex multi-part probability calculation, and as I've told you before, there's no good reason it should come to that."

"Mm-hm," Don said. He could think of plenty of bad ones, but the truth was he was tired of arguing about this. Charlie was right: he did deductive reasoning for a living, and all the evidence in this case pointed one way. Motive, method, and opportunity, a clear pattern of behavior. "So what about you? Do you have any compelling counter-arguments to offer now that you've eliminated the Vegas exception?"

Charlie turned away, settling his hands on his hips as he looked at his chalkboard, but Don had caught sight of his smile before he hid it, and smiled himself. It was his turn next, after all.

"Handcuffs," Charlie said after a long moment. "I think my next argument is going to be handcuffs."

Don stalked up silently behind him, feeling the lack of his own standard-issue handcuffs at the small of his back, and grinning at Charlie's little jump when he said, "See, there you go making it all kinky and weird again."

Charlie leaned back against Don when Don reached for him, and as Don pressed a kiss above the collar of his t-shirt Charlie said breathlessly, "Well, I like to play to my strengths."