Fic: Nightmare
Title: Nightmare
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17 FRAO
Spoilers: 02x22 Backscatter
Summary: They got into his bank. They got into his home. They got into his head.
Don's desk phone rings. The Caller ID says 'Cal Sci Security.' He takes off running, yelling over his shoulder for Megan to transfer the call to his cell phone. He can feel a drop of cold sweat sliding down behind his ear, where his comms cable should be.
Driving is nothing but an effort to stay focused, the steering wheel creaking under his twisting hands, a smear of red and blue from his flashers. The latch on his car door sounds like a shot, the breeze a wave of static swamping his hearing. Every thump of his shoes on the pavement rings as he uses up every shred of strength to reach the door of Charlie's lecture hall as fast as he can. He knows the Russian mobsters are inside; he's been here before.
He jerks the wide double doors open and sees chaos: students weeping, screaming. He pushes through the knots of bodies to Charlie's desk and finds his phone, his messenger bag. No Charlie.
He turns around, and the lecture hall is empty. There are no students, no chairs, just papers scattered across the floor, ripped and trampled. They're filled, he sees when he bends to pick one up, with numbers. His heart gives a painful, jerking thump and he's back in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling painted in streetlight-stripes from the vertical blinds.
He crawls out of bed and strips the sweaty sheets before he drags himself into the shower. A whole day's passed since they wrapped the case, but his brain just won't let go of the fact that they got to his brother. They isolated him, could have done G-d-knows-what to him. Don was all the way across town and Charlie had nothing but his brains and a few Cal Sci rent-a-cops to help him.
He goes out for a run, makes coffee, puts a movie on TV that he can't sit still enough to watch. He packs up the sheets for the laundromat. He checks his watch and curses; they won't be open for hours.
He gives up and drives over to Charlie's. He waits for the kitchen light to go on before he goes inside, worried he might scare Charlie or their dad since they have to sleep behind the same doors the mobsters jimmied. He greets his family over a second cup of coffee, then goes over everything in the garage again. He finds nothing out of place. "Dad, are you sure Charlie isn't missing anything?"
Charlie comes out of the laundry room in just his jeans, water droplets sliding out of his hair to drip glistening onto his chest. "I can't find my orange t-shirt."
He collapses on Charlie's couch and listens to them argue and finally agree that he hasn't worn the shirt for a couple of weeks and it's probably laying on the floor of his bedroom covered in chalk dust.
He stares at the ceiling for a while, trying not to think of mobsters pawing through his brother's dirty clothes. Trying not to imagine mobsters thinking about how useful such a pretty genius might be. Charlie passes him on the way to school in a brown t-shirt with a dragon on it.
"Did you find it?"
Charlie shakes his head without stopping to talk. Their father clucks over Charlie's messy habits, but Don's hands go cold.
He listens to Charlie's progress out the front door and makes himself stay on the couch until he's sure his brother is gone, breathing slowly the way he does when he's shooting: evenly, letting his breath focus his mind. It can't keep the mobsters out of his thoughts for long, but it lets him roll off the couch calmly, head up the stairs like maybe he's looking for a darker place to take a nap. Worrying his dad won't help anybody.
He combs through the mess in Charlie's room, by turns angry and nostalgic. Legos and a few cast-metal figures are scattered through the piles of laundry and notebooks. He gathers a stack of creased photocopies and dumps it into the box he's labeled "papers."
The sheets slide across one another and his eye catches on a torn half page decorated with #444# at the top in Charlie's bold numerals, the secret code he assigned to Don's name. He can decipher enough to know that it's a love letter, but the coded message is torn rather than finished.
He hears Alan open the front door, and goes to the top of the stairs. Alan explains that he's due at the soup kitchen and encourages Don to get some rest, make himself a sandwich later. Don says he will but he goes back to searching for the missing half of the note.
Dread takes root in his gut as he straightens the rest of the mess. The other half of the battered sheet is just gone. He folds the note, tucks it into his pocket and heads for Cal Sci.
Charlie's furious with him for marching into his office and scaring off his TAs. Don just glares. When Charlie runs out of indignant complaints, Don hands him the folded half page.
"What's this?" Charlie unfolds it just enough to recognize his own handwriting. "You went through my room?"
Don smacks the desk hard and Charlie jumps. "I only found half of it. What if someone took the other half?"
Charlie's face goes white and they both walk stiffly to Don's SUV, wondering if they'll face blackmail or worse once someone decodes the illicit passion on the missing paper. Unimaginable things could become their only choices, if the mob knows their secrets.
After two more hours of searching, they find the other half in a slice of deep shadow behind the dresser. Charlie's face is wet with bitter tears as he smooths the pieces against his chest, clutching the lighter he keeps for the grill.
"Read it to me first," Don murmurs, slipping his arms around Charlie from behind. His touch is the only worthy apology he can find.
When the ashes are cool they drive back to Don's apartment and crash together like thunderheads. Don's lightheaded with exhaustion and adrenaline. He clutches at Charlie but can't get close enough.
Charlie strips him, pulls him into bed, welcomes him with frantic bliss, offering the slick heat of his mouth and the searing embrace of his body. Their eyes lock, hands cling, Charlie's kiss-reddened mouth panting "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," with every desperate thrust. Don comes, clinging to Charlie for dear life: he could swear gravity itself is failing.
Charlie winds around Don as if anchoring him to the mattress. Don tells himself the shirt is meaningless, so what if some thug carried it off? Charlie's warm and safe in his arms. He risks allowing his eyes to close as his heartbeat steadies in sync with his brother's.
Again, he finds himself pounding up to the double doors, pushing through the panicked crowd. This time his brother is there, slumped over the desk, curls matted, blood pooling on his notebook. He pulls Charlie into his arms as a scream rips its way out of his throat.
"Don!" Charlie barks, softening it with one palm cupping his face. "Wake up, it's just a nightmare."
He lets Charlie soothe him, stretching out on his back so Charlie can curl against his side and pillow his head on Don's shoulder. He listens to Charlie's slow, regular breath but gives up trying to sleep himself, watching light slant across the ceiling with the passage of hours.
When Charlie rolls over in his sleep, Don slips out of bed and repeats his run, shower and coffee routine. He waits to share a quiet breakfast with Charlie before they head back to the house together. He brings his wash and hangs out in the garage instead of the laundromat, hoping to let math-coma humming and chalk-tapping lull him into a nap on the sofa.
He dozes, finds himself watching another horror in the lecture hall: his brother cowering in the orange t-shirt, a hulking mobster twisting the shoulder of it in one fist, forcing Charlie to his knees.
Charlie begs, flails, finally manages to tear the fabric and break the goon's hold. Suddenly there's nowhere for him to run-he's in a cell and the t-shirt has become a prison jumpsuit. The mobster looms, chuckling, and buries his fist in Charlie's hair.
He wakes to Charlie shushing him, kissing his forehead, his mouth. He opens his eyes, rubs them to clear the blur of orange that remains, then realizes Charlie is wearing the orange t-shirt. He hooks a finger in the collar and pulls Charlie close again, tries to forget his shuddering dread in the heat of his brother's mouth, the scent of warm cotton and fabric softener.
When the kiss breaks, Charlie grins guiltily and smooths a hand down his own chest. "It was in your laundry. I guess I left it at your place."
Don finds a smile for Charlie and rakes both hands through his hair, then levers himself off the cushions. His gut twists, dream-images lingering vividly, warping this cozy reality. How safe will Charlie ever be, as long as their relationship makes him a felon?
"I can't do our usual Friday night, buddy...." He makes himself say it without looking away, without softening it. "You should call Amita."
Charlie's jaw drops. Don knows he won't let go easily; his eyes burn with regret as he forces himself to swing the basket to his hip and walk away.
His phone rings at three in the morning and he knows what he'll hear when he answers. Charlie's past angry, mostly past tears. "Don't do this, please...I'm begging you."
Don calls to mind the pasty, leering face from his nightmare when Charlie's voice catches. He can't open any arguments-he knows he isn't strong enough to win in the face of Charlie's pain-so he whispers "Goodnight," and hangs up the phone.
He rolls over, buries his head, tells himself for at least the fiftieth time in one day that this is what they need-what Charlie needs-to be safe. He breathes slowly and evenly, forcing himself to think of nothing, to listen to the sound of air moving in and out of his body. His mind tries to paint unwelcome pictures of Charlie: in danger, at home now lonely and grieving. He painstakingly replaces the images with nothingness and the sound of breath. Later, he deliberately calls up an image of Amita resplendent in white, Charlie beaming and blushing beside her. He welcomes the pain welling up in his chest, breathes through it. It's worth it. Charlie will be safe.
He's startled by the sound of his door unlocking. He can't stay where he is; he knows that if Charlie climbs into this bed, the will to resist him will be lost. He meets his brother in the hallway, coaxes him to sit in the living room.
Charlie tries to pull Don down beside him on the couch, but he pulls away. Right now he can't touch Charlie without crumbling.
"Look buddy, I know-"
"Don't tell me what you know, because you don't know. You can't know that the outcome would be any different if you had been there."
"All I'm saying is-"
Charlie's off the couch and pacing, gesticulating wildly. "You think that because we-because of us, I have a secret someone can use against me. Honestly, Don, do you know how often it happens that the Russian mob comes after someone like me? The probability that something like this will happen again is not statistically significant. I am more likely to die in a plane crash or from a brick falling off an overpass. I can't imagine a reason to throw away what we have for such an unlikely possibility."
"I can't take chances with your life, Charlie." Don sighs wearily, slumping into a chair. "Maybe you can't imagine, but I can! You don't even want to know what my brain's been feeding me since they got to you."
Charlie's face softens as he stops in front of Don's chair. "Tell me."
"No way," Don says, crossing his arms.
"Come on, you haven't slept in days. I've seen what happens every time you try. Mom always said, a burden shared is a burden halved."
Don glares at Charlie for bringing their mother's cute little sayings into a conversation like this, but his brother won't be swayed. Jaw set, eyes challenging, he stands over Don, waiting. Don takes a deep breath and the spits the words out, painting every ugly, terrifying picture he's been living with since the phone rang on his desk with 'Cal Sci Security' on its Caller ID.
At some point in the telling, Charlie curls up in the chair with him, clinging and petting his face and chest, kissing his neck. Don's eyes blur and his throat aches as he speaks; he has to look away until his vision clears.
Sometime after the sky begins to lighten and they hear the noises of neighbors beginning a new day, Don calls in to take a personal day on the pretense of straightening out his credit cards. He sleeps between nightmares, and Charlie soothes him every time he wakes. He does head for the bank in the afternoon, promising his brother they'll meet at the apartment for dinner.
Don brings Thai takeout and a cold six pack.
Charlie brings a set of credit-card-shaped panic buttons from his NSA contact. He explains that he had never activated them before, had resisted the idea that they'd be needed. They're live now: one for his pocket and one for his nightstand. A quick squeeze will alert campus security, LAPD and the FBI, with NSA on standby. They both know this is a concession to the cold panic they felt, that's made Don so miserable. Don thanks him with a long, silent embrace. Then he turns away, clearing his throat as he opens the beer.
Charlie organizes the food, rattling on about some new research as they settle into the couch to eat, continuing as Don finds a game on TV. He drips peanut sauce on the orange t-shirt, wipes at it with a napkin that only smears the greasy stain. "You know what?" Charlie says, his eyes shining, "I've gotten peanut sauce on stuff before. It never washes out."
Don's not convinced it's an accident. He leans in to kiss Charlie, their lips shiny with oil and tingling with spices. When they finish eating, he trades his own button-down for Charlie's stained shirt, which goes into the trash with the empty takeout containers. He's comfortable in his undershirt and he knows Charlie loves to borrow his clothes, even if he can't wear them outside the apartment.
Charlie pulls Don to lie down across his lap, fingers threading through his hair. The patter of the game blends with the sounds of his breath and Charlie's breath falling into sync as the tension drains from his body. He won't let his eyes close, but they go unfocused, turning the television into a flickering blob of light. He can't guess how much time has passed when Charlie nudges him and whispers, "Let's go to bed."
He dreams of sleeping in the lecture hall, listening to Charlie explain some complicated Eulerian set theory thing. Somebody keeps trying to wake him, but he's so tired and warm, he lets himself be enveloped by the scent of chalk and the sound of Charlie's voice.
When he opens his eyes, bright late-morning sunlight streams around the edges of the blinds. Charlie has turned away to burrow under the covers, no part of him in sight but a tangle of hair. Don curls against Charlie's back, pressing a kiss to his temple before settling back into peaceful sleep.
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17 FRAO
Spoilers: 02x22 Backscatter
Summary: They got into his bank. They got into his home. They got into his head.
Don's desk phone rings. The Caller ID says 'Cal Sci Security.' He takes off running, yelling over his shoulder for Megan to transfer the call to his cell phone. He can feel a drop of cold sweat sliding down behind his ear, where his comms cable should be.
Driving is nothing but an effort to stay focused, the steering wheel creaking under his twisting hands, a smear of red and blue from his flashers. The latch on his car door sounds like a shot, the breeze a wave of static swamping his hearing. Every thump of his shoes on the pavement rings as he uses up every shred of strength to reach the door of Charlie's lecture hall as fast as he can. He knows the Russian mobsters are inside; he's been here before.
He jerks the wide double doors open and sees chaos: students weeping, screaming. He pushes through the knots of bodies to Charlie's desk and finds his phone, his messenger bag. No Charlie.
He turns around, and the lecture hall is empty. There are no students, no chairs, just papers scattered across the floor, ripped and trampled. They're filled, he sees when he bends to pick one up, with numbers. His heart gives a painful, jerking thump and he's back in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling painted in streetlight-stripes from the vertical blinds.
He crawls out of bed and strips the sweaty sheets before he drags himself into the shower. A whole day's passed since they wrapped the case, but his brain just won't let go of the fact that they got to his brother. They isolated him, could have done G-d-knows-what to him. Don was all the way across town and Charlie had nothing but his brains and a few Cal Sci rent-a-cops to help him.
He goes out for a run, makes coffee, puts a movie on TV that he can't sit still enough to watch. He packs up the sheets for the laundromat. He checks his watch and curses; they won't be open for hours.
He gives up and drives over to Charlie's. He waits for the kitchen light to go on before he goes inside, worried he might scare Charlie or their dad since they have to sleep behind the same doors the mobsters jimmied. He greets his family over a second cup of coffee, then goes over everything in the garage again. He finds nothing out of place. "Dad, are you sure Charlie isn't missing anything?"
Charlie comes out of the laundry room in just his jeans, water droplets sliding out of his hair to drip glistening onto his chest. "I can't find my orange t-shirt."
He collapses on Charlie's couch and listens to them argue and finally agree that he hasn't worn the shirt for a couple of weeks and it's probably laying on the floor of his bedroom covered in chalk dust.
He stares at the ceiling for a while, trying not to think of mobsters pawing through his brother's dirty clothes. Trying not to imagine mobsters thinking about how useful such a pretty genius might be. Charlie passes him on the way to school in a brown t-shirt with a dragon on it.
"Did you find it?"
Charlie shakes his head without stopping to talk. Their father clucks over Charlie's messy habits, but Don's hands go cold.
He listens to Charlie's progress out the front door and makes himself stay on the couch until he's sure his brother is gone, breathing slowly the way he does when he's shooting: evenly, letting his breath focus his mind. It can't keep the mobsters out of his thoughts for long, but it lets him roll off the couch calmly, head up the stairs like maybe he's looking for a darker place to take a nap. Worrying his dad won't help anybody.
He combs through the mess in Charlie's room, by turns angry and nostalgic. Legos and a few cast-metal figures are scattered through the piles of laundry and notebooks. He gathers a stack of creased photocopies and dumps it into the box he's labeled "papers."
The sheets slide across one another and his eye catches on a torn half page decorated with #444# at the top in Charlie's bold numerals, the secret code he assigned to Don's name. He can decipher enough to know that it's a love letter, but the coded message is torn rather than finished.
He hears Alan open the front door, and goes to the top of the stairs. Alan explains that he's due at the soup kitchen and encourages Don to get some rest, make himself a sandwich later. Don says he will but he goes back to searching for the missing half of the note.
Dread takes root in his gut as he straightens the rest of the mess. The other half of the battered sheet is just gone. He folds the note, tucks it into his pocket and heads for Cal Sci.
Charlie's furious with him for marching into his office and scaring off his TAs. Don just glares. When Charlie runs out of indignant complaints, Don hands him the folded half page.
"What's this?" Charlie unfolds it just enough to recognize his own handwriting. "You went through my room?"
Don smacks the desk hard and Charlie jumps. "I only found half of it. What if someone took the other half?"
Charlie's face goes white and they both walk stiffly to Don's SUV, wondering if they'll face blackmail or worse once someone decodes the illicit passion on the missing paper. Unimaginable things could become their only choices, if the mob knows their secrets.
After two more hours of searching, they find the other half in a slice of deep shadow behind the dresser. Charlie's face is wet with bitter tears as he smooths the pieces against his chest, clutching the lighter he keeps for the grill.
"Read it to me first," Don murmurs, slipping his arms around Charlie from behind. His touch is the only worthy apology he can find.
When the ashes are cool they drive back to Don's apartment and crash together like thunderheads. Don's lightheaded with exhaustion and adrenaline. He clutches at Charlie but can't get close enough.
Charlie strips him, pulls him into bed, welcomes him with frantic bliss, offering the slick heat of his mouth and the searing embrace of his body. Their eyes lock, hands cling, Charlie's kiss-reddened mouth panting "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," with every desperate thrust. Don comes, clinging to Charlie for dear life: he could swear gravity itself is failing.
Charlie winds around Don as if anchoring him to the mattress. Don tells himself the shirt is meaningless, so what if some thug carried it off? Charlie's warm and safe in his arms. He risks allowing his eyes to close as his heartbeat steadies in sync with his brother's.
Again, he finds himself pounding up to the double doors, pushing through the panicked crowd. This time his brother is there, slumped over the desk, curls matted, blood pooling on his notebook. He pulls Charlie into his arms as a scream rips its way out of his throat.
"Don!" Charlie barks, softening it with one palm cupping his face. "Wake up, it's just a nightmare."
He lets Charlie soothe him, stretching out on his back so Charlie can curl against his side and pillow his head on Don's shoulder. He listens to Charlie's slow, regular breath but gives up trying to sleep himself, watching light slant across the ceiling with the passage of hours.
When Charlie rolls over in his sleep, Don slips out of bed and repeats his run, shower and coffee routine. He waits to share a quiet breakfast with Charlie before they head back to the house together. He brings his wash and hangs out in the garage instead of the laundromat, hoping to let math-coma humming and chalk-tapping lull him into a nap on the sofa.
He dozes, finds himself watching another horror in the lecture hall: his brother cowering in the orange t-shirt, a hulking mobster twisting the shoulder of it in one fist, forcing Charlie to his knees.
Charlie begs, flails, finally manages to tear the fabric and break the goon's hold. Suddenly there's nowhere for him to run-he's in a cell and the t-shirt has become a prison jumpsuit. The mobster looms, chuckling, and buries his fist in Charlie's hair.
He wakes to Charlie shushing him, kissing his forehead, his mouth. He opens his eyes, rubs them to clear the blur of orange that remains, then realizes Charlie is wearing the orange t-shirt. He hooks a finger in the collar and pulls Charlie close again, tries to forget his shuddering dread in the heat of his brother's mouth, the scent of warm cotton and fabric softener.
When the kiss breaks, Charlie grins guiltily and smooths a hand down his own chest. "It was in your laundry. I guess I left it at your place."
Don finds a smile for Charlie and rakes both hands through his hair, then levers himself off the cushions. His gut twists, dream-images lingering vividly, warping this cozy reality. How safe will Charlie ever be, as long as their relationship makes him a felon?
"I can't do our usual Friday night, buddy...." He makes himself say it without looking away, without softening it. "You should call Amita."
Charlie's jaw drops. Don knows he won't let go easily; his eyes burn with regret as he forces himself to swing the basket to his hip and walk away.
His phone rings at three in the morning and he knows what he'll hear when he answers. Charlie's past angry, mostly past tears. "Don't do this, please...I'm begging you."
Don calls to mind the pasty, leering face from his nightmare when Charlie's voice catches. He can't open any arguments-he knows he isn't strong enough to win in the face of Charlie's pain-so he whispers "Goodnight," and hangs up the phone.
He rolls over, buries his head, tells himself for at least the fiftieth time in one day that this is what they need-what Charlie needs-to be safe. He breathes slowly and evenly, forcing himself to think of nothing, to listen to the sound of air moving in and out of his body. His mind tries to paint unwelcome pictures of Charlie: in danger, at home now lonely and grieving. He painstakingly replaces the images with nothingness and the sound of breath. Later, he deliberately calls up an image of Amita resplendent in white, Charlie beaming and blushing beside her. He welcomes the pain welling up in his chest, breathes through it. It's worth it. Charlie will be safe.
He's startled by the sound of his door unlocking. He can't stay where he is; he knows that if Charlie climbs into this bed, the will to resist him will be lost. He meets his brother in the hallway, coaxes him to sit in the living room.
Charlie tries to pull Don down beside him on the couch, but he pulls away. Right now he can't touch Charlie without crumbling.
"Look buddy, I know-"
"Don't tell me what you know, because you don't know. You can't know that the outcome would be any different if you had been there."
"All I'm saying is-"
Charlie's off the couch and pacing, gesticulating wildly. "You think that because we-because of us, I have a secret someone can use against me. Honestly, Don, do you know how often it happens that the Russian mob comes after someone like me? The probability that something like this will happen again is not statistically significant. I am more likely to die in a plane crash or from a brick falling off an overpass. I can't imagine a reason to throw away what we have for such an unlikely possibility."
"I can't take chances with your life, Charlie." Don sighs wearily, slumping into a chair. "Maybe you can't imagine, but I can! You don't even want to know what my brain's been feeding me since they got to you."
Charlie's face softens as he stops in front of Don's chair. "Tell me."
"No way," Don says, crossing his arms.
"Come on, you haven't slept in days. I've seen what happens every time you try. Mom always said, a burden shared is a burden halved."
Don glares at Charlie for bringing their mother's cute little sayings into a conversation like this, but his brother won't be swayed. Jaw set, eyes challenging, he stands over Don, waiting. Don takes a deep breath and the spits the words out, painting every ugly, terrifying picture he's been living with since the phone rang on his desk with 'Cal Sci Security' on its Caller ID.
At some point in the telling, Charlie curls up in the chair with him, clinging and petting his face and chest, kissing his neck. Don's eyes blur and his throat aches as he speaks; he has to look away until his vision clears.
Sometime after the sky begins to lighten and they hear the noises of neighbors beginning a new day, Don calls in to take a personal day on the pretense of straightening out his credit cards. He sleeps between nightmares, and Charlie soothes him every time he wakes. He does head for the bank in the afternoon, promising his brother they'll meet at the apartment for dinner.
Don brings Thai takeout and a cold six pack.
Charlie brings a set of credit-card-shaped panic buttons from his NSA contact. He explains that he had never activated them before, had resisted the idea that they'd be needed. They're live now: one for his pocket and one for his nightstand. A quick squeeze will alert campus security, LAPD and the FBI, with NSA on standby. They both know this is a concession to the cold panic they felt, that's made Don so miserable. Don thanks him with a long, silent embrace. Then he turns away, clearing his throat as he opens the beer.
Charlie organizes the food, rattling on about some new research as they settle into the couch to eat, continuing as Don finds a game on TV. He drips peanut sauce on the orange t-shirt, wipes at it with a napkin that only smears the greasy stain. "You know what?" Charlie says, his eyes shining, "I've gotten peanut sauce on stuff before. It never washes out."
Don's not convinced it's an accident. He leans in to kiss Charlie, their lips shiny with oil and tingling with spices. When they finish eating, he trades his own button-down for Charlie's stained shirt, which goes into the trash with the empty takeout containers. He's comfortable in his undershirt and he knows Charlie loves to borrow his clothes, even if he can't wear them outside the apartment.
Charlie pulls Don to lie down across his lap, fingers threading through his hair. The patter of the game blends with the sounds of his breath and Charlie's breath falling into sync as the tension drains from his body. He won't let his eyes close, but they go unfocused, turning the television into a flickering blob of light. He can't guess how much time has passed when Charlie nudges him and whispers, "Let's go to bed."
He dreams of sleeping in the lecture hall, listening to Charlie explain some complicated Eulerian set theory thing. Somebody keeps trying to wake him, but he's so tired and warm, he lets himself be enveloped by the scent of chalk and the sound of Charlie's voice.
When he opens his eyes, bright late-morning sunlight streams around the edges of the blinds. Charlie has turned away to burrow under the covers, no part of him in sight but a tangle of hair. Don curls against Charlie's back, pressing a kiss to his temple before settling back into peaceful sleep.