Ok. The Numb3rs plot bunny mafia has got my number and is forcing me to do this...
Here's a don/charlie ficlet or drabble (a drablet, if you will) that I felt compelled to write today during my lunch break instead of, you know, actually eating my lunch.
Ah, Eppescest - you are both meat and drink to me, my love...
After the cause, the causality
Charlie can now never forget the danger Don’s job puts him in. Even when he’s gasping and needy, bare underneath his brother, the danger is there lurking – like an aching tooth or an incorrect equation, not letting him forget.
Don always has a pale, faint taste of hard metal and chemicals – brass and cordite. The opposite end of the spectrum from Charlie’s soft, white-mineral taste.
Don’s hands remind him, even when they’re wrapped around his cock, twisting and stroking all the brains Charlie has out of him. Don has calluses on his palm from firing his gun at the practise range. They add wonderful, exquisite friction and remind Charlie every second that his brother can kill. Or be killed.
But it helps. These times of sweatskinteethnailsbiteclutchmoan – as if every little death wards off the chances of a bigger ending like a talisman; and Charlie knows that’s stupid and foolish and, worse, mathematically not viable but he clings to the idea anyway. Donny is the only one he would compromise his integrity like that for.
Skin heals. And scrapes (bullet wounds, it was a bullet) mend, and the fact that Charlie knows how the small white scar on Don’s forearm feels under his lips and tongue helps.
He tells himself it helps.