(no subject)
LOCI fic is, in fact, forthcoming. ^^ First, some Don love (call it a belated Rob Morrow present).
Title: Heroic
Author: Kiera Kinsgley
Pairing: Don / Charlie
Rating: NC-17 for some imagery
Warning: Eppescest.
1.
When Don is nine and Charlie is three, there’s a dying bird lying out in the sidewalk.
Charlie is outside on the porch, chubby fist closed around a stub of crayon as he scribbles determinedly on sheets of construction paper. He’s babbling in his own strange little language, half sing-song, drumming his heels and kicking out tiny feet as he multiples 3129 by 278, divides by 94, subtracts 9213.
He tosses his purple crayon and it goes skittering off the porch, rolling down the front steps; gets to his feet and clings to the railing, toddling down the steps in his tiny socks.
Beyond the purple crayon, across the lawn, something moves. A bird heaves over, flopping to one side heavily. Its wing is crumpled and bent at an odd angle, feather smeared with blood. It shudders on the ground, dragging its wing agonizingly slow as it lurches, and bleats with pain.
Charlie bursts into tears and runs inside, looking for Donnie.
Donnie drops the baseball he’s been idly tossing--waiting for his friends, sprawled out on the couch, baseball cap stuffed on his head and bike tethered out front. He picks up Charlie--who curls into his shoulder immediately, burying his face and sniffling--and carries him outside, where the bird is crumpled on the grass, and tells Charlie to go get him an empty shoebox and an old dishrag.
Charlie runs off back into the house, scrambling up the steps, eager to be helping. When he returns, Donnie takes the cloth and carefully wraps it around a very small, very still form.
His little brother gulps noisily, snuffling, eyes all wet.
“You want to help me make a hole in the backyard?” Donnie asks in a voice that’s a little gentler than usual, like an arm around the shoulder. Charlie nods.
They dig together, fingers and spoons scrabbling in the dirt, and Donnie lays the box down carefully in the bottom before they shovel the dirt back over it again. Donnie puts up a little pile of stones over the earth, stacking them up, and Charlie goes and gets his crayon and scrawls all over them.
His big brother lifts him up to the sink to wash his hands under the tap, and heads outside to the front porch with him. He asks Charlie to show him the numbers he’s been working on, grabs his crayons, plays with him. Tickles Charlie’s toes and makes him giggle and squirm. When his friends stop by on their bikes, with their backpacks, he says he’s busy today. Donnie spends the rest of the afternoon with his little brother, hanging out on the porch.
When Don is nine and Charlie is three, Charlie learns that a hero cares about people more than anything else.
2.
When Don is thirteen and Charlie is seven, there’s a bully waiting outside in the playground.
“What’re you doing, freak?” Matt shoves him from the side, up against the slides. Charlie clutches his notebooks to his chest, making himself as small as possible, nauseous fear curling up tight inside his belly and whimpering. “Gimme your books.”
Charlie shakes his head, lips pressed together tight, fingers white-knuckled around his papers. He’d been working on integrating f(x) = sqrt (tan(x)) wrt x all day, in his best cursive writing letters, while his tutor sat and watched him with a warm glow of appreciation, and he’d wriggled in his seat with squirmy glee when she beamed at him.
“I said gimme your books!” Matt kicks him viciously in the side, making him huddle in on himself. “C’mon--”
Charlie fights back tears, screwing up his eyes and willing himself desperately not to cry, hurting with the effort, as he drops his books. Matt rips pages apart, paper fluttering everywhere. Some of it he stamps into the nearest mud puddle, crumpling sheets up. One of his cronies pretends to sneeze and cough all over the paper, sniggering; another pretends to wipe his butt with a handful of papers, and Matt snorts with laughter. Charlie keeps his eyes squeezed shut, shaking, fights back tears. He won’t cry. He won’t cry.
Then there’s a rustling sound, footsteps, and suddenly yelps of astonishment, scuffling scurrying noises. A loud, hard punch--a wet smacking noise, a whuff of breath. And Don’s voice.
“Don’t you fucking touch my brother again, Leinert, or I’ll break your arm. I swear to God I will.”
Charlie opens his eyes; they sting and blur with tears, some slipping down his cheeks in spite of himself, and he stares blearily. Don is standing there, clothes rumpled, as Matt holds his nose and blood pours between his fingers. Matt looks up, his face smeared with red, his eyes wild, and Don just stares him down. Just stands there and looks him straight in the eye.
And Matt rubs his sleeve against his nose, with a muffled ‘snrrrk’ sound, and leaves.
“C’mon,” Don mutters, bending down to pick up Charlie’s scattered things clumsily in armfuls. “We’re going home.”
Charlie stumbles to his feet and helps pick up, awkwardly, and follows his brother in silence with his head ducked down. When they’re far enough from the schoolyard he takes his brother’s hand shyly, and Don’s fingers are warm around his as he holds his hand tight. And Don is the one who rummages around for bandaids and peeling tape when they get home, patching him up with icepacks and bottles of Coke, as they try to put Charlie’s notebooks back together, sitting on the front porch.
When Don is thirteen and Charlie is seven, Charlie learns that a hero protects other people against anything.
3.
When Don is fifteen and Charlie is nine, a pitcher’s throw slams into Don’s cheek in the sandlot after school and knocks him down.
Charlie pales at the huge bruise and goes white as Don spits up blood, hovering behind his father as Dad rinses out Don’s mouth at the sink. Don moans with pain, swearing incoherently as water splashes over his face, and his eyes are brimming with tears and huge, terrified, as they meet Charlie’s.
Charlie remembers the dying bird limp on the sidewalk. Charlie’s hands ball into squeezing fists.
Don has to go get surgery at the dentist--the teeth are stuck the wrong way or something. Dad tells him he has to get an anaesthetic, that the doctor is going to put a needle into his arm and he’s going to fall asleep, that’s it okay really, he won’t feel a thing, it’ll just be like going to bed. It’ll be all right.
Don sits silent in the car on the way there, staring straight ahead. His cheek is still swollen, purple-black bruising ugly and distorted along his jaw. He takes his brother’s hand shyly, in the backseat, and Charlie’s heart goes thump-thump, and Charlie’s fingers are warm around his as he holds his hand tight.
Don doesn’t say anything, sitting in the office. He doesn’t look at the sports magazines or the other toys the kids are playing with. Charlie holds his hand, stubbornly clinging on, and feels Don’s palm sweaty and clammy with fear.
And then the nurse says, “Donald Eppes?”, looking up from flipping through her charts, and Don says “OK,” very simply and gets up to his feet, and goes into the other room without looking back.
When Don is fifteen and Charlie is nine, Charlie learns that heroes are afraid, and it doesn’t matter.
4.
When Don is twenty-two and Charlie is sixteen, there’s an end of the term party in Charlie’s dorm at Princeton.
Everyone’s drinking--even Charlie manages to sneak a beer when nobody’s watching. There’s beer cans on the sofa and vodka bottles standing upright near the fridge, and rum bottles tipped over close to the sink, and the music is blaring and people are climbing up on the tables to dance.
Don’s visited his little brother before they head home for the holidays. He’s got a beer in hand now, chatting to a pretty girl with his hair mussed up in that dorky sexy way of his--Charlie turns away from that thought uneasily. Comes face to face with remembering: how he lay in bed one night and imagined Don’s hair between his fingers as his older brother blew him, both sprawled out on the bed with Charlie’s pants shoved down and legs spread wide, as Don’s tongue teased him lewdly until he moaned uncontrollably, weak at the knees, and as Don took him deep into his throat, sucking hard, until he couldn’t breathe. And it felt so wrong and so dirty and so good and he came, startled, eyes huge as he swore in the darkness.
Charlie shoves that thought aside, roughly, and swigs at his beer.
There’s drunken stumbling on the tables now, people laughing and clutching at each other with little shrieks and whoops. A couple’s making out noisily in the corner, crawling all over each other, tongues sliding and rubbing together. Somewhere a bunch of guys bellow with laughter and slosh glasses. The music’s beat pounds into his head, throbbing hard, and it’s too hot and stuffy and loud, and he wants to retreat to somewhere quiet and cool where he can lose himself in Schanuel's conjecture.
Suddenly, in a corner, a tall buzz-cut guy in a hockey jersey shoves another guy, shouting drunkenly. The second guy shoves back, spitting, and the first guy grabs at his shirt.
“Hey, guys--” Don’s there, out of nowhere, wrestling his way through the crowd. “Guys. Knock it off, okay? The police--”
“Fuck off, asshole,” the first one snarls at him, and swings a beefy fist and punches him. There’s a sickening silence as Don reels backwards, clutching his face and stumbling, and Charlie swears he can feel his heart seize up and stop.
Then Don punches back, and this time Charlie sees it--he doesn’t have his eyes screwed up tight trying not to cry, he’s not cowering by the slides--and the guy goes down flat. The second guy wavers drunkenly as Don turns to look at him, head lolling about and eyes crossing as he tries to muster a menacing glare, then also collapses.
There’s a sudden wave of relieved, almost hysterical laughter, rippling through the room, and Don is clapped on the back and handed another drink as he’s absorbed back into the crowd. Amid the cheering and loud excited chattering, Don’s eyes meet Charlie’s--Don’s left eyes is already looking puffy--and there’s the sudden feeling that they’d both take each other’s hands shyly, and feel each other’s fingers warm around their own as they held on tight, and Don catches his breath at the same time Charlie catches his.
When Don is twenty-two and Charlie is sixteen, Charlie learns that heroes are in danger, and it doesn’t matter.
5.
When Don is twenty-eight and Charlie is twenty-two, Charlie wins his first award.
There’s clapping all around the podium, lightbulbs going off, watches and jewelry twinkling out in the darkness surrounding the tables as he stands to make his speech. The glittering ceiling soars above them.
Charlie stands there, grinning like an idiot as he clutches his award for mathematical brilliance, and clears his throat. “Hi. Um. Wow, uh... wow. Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity...”
Later, his head swimming on champagne and handshaking and posing with big smiles for photos, he heads for the bathroom. There’s barely anyone in the hallway, a few people slipping past the doors; it’s practically deserted. He smoothes back his hair vainly and tries to straighten his tie, and freezes as he hears his father’s raised voice.
“--proud of Charlie?”
“Of course I am, Dad, I love Charlie, he’s my little brother,” Don’s voice, tight and angry, snaps back. “I just wish you’d have asked once how I was doing with Kim, or at the FBI--”
“Christ almighty, Don, do you always have to be like this? Can’t you let your brother have one night?”
“I let my brother have my lifetime!” Don’s voice strains at this point, breaking. “Every moment, every time he always comes first, he’s always better and brighter and smarter than me, and I don’t mind, Dad, because he is, but is it too selfish to ask for a few minutes with you just by myself?”
Charlie’s heart is somewhere around the soles of his shoes as he steps backwards, and there’s something very big and aching in his throat as he swallows hard. He fumbles with the bathroom door and ducks into a stall inside, stays there for a long while. When he comes out and splashes cold water over his face, he tells himself it’s because he’s hot and sweaty with being out in the crowd for so long.
When he comes out, Don’s standing alone, waiting for his own bathroom stall. Don looks up and sees his stricken face, and understands in an instant. “Charlie--oh, fuck, I’m sorry, Dad and I didn’t mean you to hear that...”
“I’m interested,” Charlie says awkwardly, stumbling over the clumsy words in his mouth. “I care about what you do, who you’re with--”
“I know. I know you do. It’s okay, buddy,” and Don takes his hand shyly, and his fingers are warm around Charlie’s as he holds on tight, and then he draws Charlie into a hug in the middle of the hallway and Charlie hangs on, curling into his shoulder the same way he did when he was three. “It’s okay, Charlie. We’re all keyed up tonight, it’s a really big thing for you, and... well, Dad and I aren’t taking home any prizes for intelligence.”
Charlie laughs a bit at that, watery, and Don draws back and gently pokes him. “I’m proud of you, buddy. I really am.”
It’s the best thing in the world Charlie could hear.
When Don is twenty-eight and Charlie is twenty-two, Charlie learns that heroes are just ordinary people underneath.
6.
When Don is thirty-six and Charlie is thirty, there’s a kidnapped girl trapped down an abandoned quarry.
“Look, Colby, don’t argue, just page the results to Forensics--Megan, hey, Megan! Where’s the gear? We need to get down there--” Don is barking out orders, dressed in SWAT uniform, gun slung under his shoulder and holsters strapped on, as the teams mill about the van.
“Paramedics are unloading, they’ve got the equipment in the back,” Megan calls back, as an emergency worker flies past her. “Wells is going to suit us up, over here...”
Don joins her to have bits of electronics wired around his gear, standing restlessly and fiddling as Wells fastens a micro-camera to his vest lapel. “Charlie,” he says urgently, nodding to his brother who sits in the back and scribbles on a notepad feverishly. “You double-checked your equations?”
Charlie shifts the book he’s sitting on and holds up the pad, triumphantly, always eager to help. “Done. There’s no mistake, everything triangulates to this position. This is your guy, Don.”
“Good.” Don nods at him again, and the look in his eyes--only for Charlie, in that moment--is grateful. Charlie swallows as the surveillance image flickers to life on the screen as the camera blinks, and Don swivels around slowly. “I’ll see you back here when Megan and I’ve got Alicia. Don’t leave the van, okay?”
Charlie promises and Don’s shoulders unwind just a bit, as if he needed that promise to feel safer, and then they’re calling for Don and Megan to grab their things and they disappear into the crowd. Charlie looks down at his numbers, scribbled on his pad, and tries to forget things, to get into that silent cool headspace where everything’s infinitely clear and precise. Fails; his mind is too full of Don, and nervous worry.
The two agents fan out through the quarry with their fellow teammates on a signal, ducking low, guns at the ready. Don keeps to the shadows, moving in and out of old girders and skeletal beams, footprints shuffling up faint gray clouds of dust and gravel. He’s silent, tensed, barely daring to breathe. Megan is briefly visible on the other side of the quarry, a pinpoint of color in her bright red blouse, and then disappears again.
He comes to an empty mine shaft and peers down, flicking his flashlight on. There are scuffmarks around the edge of the shaft, as if something was dragged there, traces of a struggle--a recent fight. “Backup to sector 9-B,” he says quietly, into his microphone, then unhooks his climbing gear.
The descent is slow, and unsteady; his hook grates against the steel, sliding forward, and he has to balance himself against the jagged rock edges. His breathing seems unnaturally loud in the mineshaft, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Don grips at the rock face, boots scuffling at the ledges, and eases himself further down.
There’s an eerie sound in this shaft, like wind whistling low, a moaning sound, and chills are creeping up Don’s spine, and then as it gets pitch-black and his flashlight circles the shadows crazily, he hears it: it’s a human voice, demented beyond all reason, sobbing aloud.
“FBI,” he calls hoarsely into the darkness, his throat dry as he swallows. He’s hovering precariously over the darkness, his boots kicking against nothing. “Steven Audsley, you’re under arrest--”
A gunshot scatters across the rock, ricocheting, pebbles dislodging and showering him, and Don swears as his harness swings wildly. There’s another gunshot, blasting up through the black, that goes wild and misses, and Don shines his flashlight directly into Steven Audsley’s eyes.
The man is white-faced, gaunt, staring as his chest heaves. He’s got Alicia clutched tight in his arms, a tiny Alicia in flower-print pink dress who struggles and kicks against him, and there is dirt and blood under his fingernails and he’s already half-buried them underneath the rocks. Don goes cold all over.
“Put down your gun!” he bellows, swaying on the harness, aiming his own rifle. “Put down your weapon and...”
The third shot doesn’t miss, and Don gasps with sudden agony as his rifle clatters out of his bloodied hand and falls to the ground. The next shots dislodge the rock face completely with a loud crash, and Don’s harness falls apart, and they all tumble to the ground in pitch-blackness and an avalanche of rocks and blinding pain.
Don doesn’t really remember a lot of what happened next. His head was hit, hard, and he was dizzy and blood was streaming down his face as he clawed his way through the rocks. They were pressing down on him, suffocating him under their weight, and he was going to be buried alive under here--
He remembers fighting off Steven Audsley’s groping hands, frantic shaking fingers. He remembers burrowing frantically, unable to breathe, choking, his fingers raw and scrabbling--we need spoons, Charlie, find a spoon, he thought dazedly at one point--and finally, finally, oh, God, no air left, can’t see, his hands closing around a tiny girls’ hand with painted pink nail polish.
And gathering her shakily into his arms, digging her out, brushing mud and dirt and tears off her face. And fumbling in the darkness, his flashlight broken, his boots unsteady and sliding as he stumbled forward dizzily, his heart ready to burst open, can’t stand up, can’t see, can’t breathe, no air left, have to go on...
And his hand closing around the ropes, and tugging, and holding on as they were pulled up into life and light and air.
He remembers gasping, his chest heaving. He remembers people crowded around, Alicia crying, Megan dragging up paramedics with a stretcher, everyone shouting. Lots of shining flashing lights, lots of faces, blurring all around him.
And Charlie. Charlie, face dead white, Charlie, disheveled and wild-eyed, Charlie is all Don sees, and Charlie catches at his brother’s hand urgently, and Charlie’s fingers are warm around his and Don’s fingers are warm around Charlie’s, and they both hold on tight.
When Don was thirty-six and Charlie was thirty, Charlie learned that heroes are ordinary people who do extraordinary things.
Title: Heroic
Author: Kiera Kinsgley
Pairing: Don / Charlie
Rating: NC-17 for some imagery
Warning: Eppescest.
1.
When Don is nine and Charlie is three, there’s a dying bird lying out in the sidewalk.
Charlie is outside on the porch, chubby fist closed around a stub of crayon as he scribbles determinedly on sheets of construction paper. He’s babbling in his own strange little language, half sing-song, drumming his heels and kicking out tiny feet as he multiples 3129 by 278, divides by 94, subtracts 9213.
He tosses his purple crayon and it goes skittering off the porch, rolling down the front steps; gets to his feet and clings to the railing, toddling down the steps in his tiny socks.
Beyond the purple crayon, across the lawn, something moves. A bird heaves over, flopping to one side heavily. Its wing is crumpled and bent at an odd angle, feather smeared with blood. It shudders on the ground, dragging its wing agonizingly slow as it lurches, and bleats with pain.
Charlie bursts into tears and runs inside, looking for Donnie.
Donnie drops the baseball he’s been idly tossing--waiting for his friends, sprawled out on the couch, baseball cap stuffed on his head and bike tethered out front. He picks up Charlie--who curls into his shoulder immediately, burying his face and sniffling--and carries him outside, where the bird is crumpled on the grass, and tells Charlie to go get him an empty shoebox and an old dishrag.
Charlie runs off back into the house, scrambling up the steps, eager to be helping. When he returns, Donnie takes the cloth and carefully wraps it around a very small, very still form.
His little brother gulps noisily, snuffling, eyes all wet.
“You want to help me make a hole in the backyard?” Donnie asks in a voice that’s a little gentler than usual, like an arm around the shoulder. Charlie nods.
They dig together, fingers and spoons scrabbling in the dirt, and Donnie lays the box down carefully in the bottom before they shovel the dirt back over it again. Donnie puts up a little pile of stones over the earth, stacking them up, and Charlie goes and gets his crayon and scrawls all over them.
His big brother lifts him up to the sink to wash his hands under the tap, and heads outside to the front porch with him. He asks Charlie to show him the numbers he’s been working on, grabs his crayons, plays with him. Tickles Charlie’s toes and makes him giggle and squirm. When his friends stop by on their bikes, with their backpacks, he says he’s busy today. Donnie spends the rest of the afternoon with his little brother, hanging out on the porch.
When Don is nine and Charlie is three, Charlie learns that a hero cares about people more than anything else.
2.
When Don is thirteen and Charlie is seven, there’s a bully waiting outside in the playground.
“What’re you doing, freak?” Matt shoves him from the side, up against the slides. Charlie clutches his notebooks to his chest, making himself as small as possible, nauseous fear curling up tight inside his belly and whimpering. “Gimme your books.”
Charlie shakes his head, lips pressed together tight, fingers white-knuckled around his papers. He’d been working on integrating f(x) = sqrt (tan(x)) wrt x all day, in his best cursive writing letters, while his tutor sat and watched him with a warm glow of appreciation, and he’d wriggled in his seat with squirmy glee when she beamed at him.
“I said gimme your books!” Matt kicks him viciously in the side, making him huddle in on himself. “C’mon--”
Charlie fights back tears, screwing up his eyes and willing himself desperately not to cry, hurting with the effort, as he drops his books. Matt rips pages apart, paper fluttering everywhere. Some of it he stamps into the nearest mud puddle, crumpling sheets up. One of his cronies pretends to sneeze and cough all over the paper, sniggering; another pretends to wipe his butt with a handful of papers, and Matt snorts with laughter. Charlie keeps his eyes squeezed shut, shaking, fights back tears. He won’t cry. He won’t cry.
Then there’s a rustling sound, footsteps, and suddenly yelps of astonishment, scuffling scurrying noises. A loud, hard punch--a wet smacking noise, a whuff of breath. And Don’s voice.
“Don’t you fucking touch my brother again, Leinert, or I’ll break your arm. I swear to God I will.”
Charlie opens his eyes; they sting and blur with tears, some slipping down his cheeks in spite of himself, and he stares blearily. Don is standing there, clothes rumpled, as Matt holds his nose and blood pours between his fingers. Matt looks up, his face smeared with red, his eyes wild, and Don just stares him down. Just stands there and looks him straight in the eye.
And Matt rubs his sleeve against his nose, with a muffled ‘snrrrk’ sound, and leaves.
“C’mon,” Don mutters, bending down to pick up Charlie’s scattered things clumsily in armfuls. “We’re going home.”
Charlie stumbles to his feet and helps pick up, awkwardly, and follows his brother in silence with his head ducked down. When they’re far enough from the schoolyard he takes his brother’s hand shyly, and Don’s fingers are warm around his as he holds his hand tight. And Don is the one who rummages around for bandaids and peeling tape when they get home, patching him up with icepacks and bottles of Coke, as they try to put Charlie’s notebooks back together, sitting on the front porch.
When Don is thirteen and Charlie is seven, Charlie learns that a hero protects other people against anything.
3.
When Don is fifteen and Charlie is nine, a pitcher’s throw slams into Don’s cheek in the sandlot after school and knocks him down.
Charlie pales at the huge bruise and goes white as Don spits up blood, hovering behind his father as Dad rinses out Don’s mouth at the sink. Don moans with pain, swearing incoherently as water splashes over his face, and his eyes are brimming with tears and huge, terrified, as they meet Charlie’s.
Charlie remembers the dying bird limp on the sidewalk. Charlie’s hands ball into squeezing fists.
Don has to go get surgery at the dentist--the teeth are stuck the wrong way or something. Dad tells him he has to get an anaesthetic, that the doctor is going to put a needle into his arm and he’s going to fall asleep, that’s it okay really, he won’t feel a thing, it’ll just be like going to bed. It’ll be all right.
Don sits silent in the car on the way there, staring straight ahead. His cheek is still swollen, purple-black bruising ugly and distorted along his jaw. He takes his brother’s hand shyly, in the backseat, and Charlie’s heart goes thump-thump, and Charlie’s fingers are warm around his as he holds his hand tight.
Don doesn’t say anything, sitting in the office. He doesn’t look at the sports magazines or the other toys the kids are playing with. Charlie holds his hand, stubbornly clinging on, and feels Don’s palm sweaty and clammy with fear.
And then the nurse says, “Donald Eppes?”, looking up from flipping through her charts, and Don says “OK,” very simply and gets up to his feet, and goes into the other room without looking back.
When Don is fifteen and Charlie is nine, Charlie learns that heroes are afraid, and it doesn’t matter.
4.
When Don is twenty-two and Charlie is sixteen, there’s an end of the term party in Charlie’s dorm at Princeton.
Everyone’s drinking--even Charlie manages to sneak a beer when nobody’s watching. There’s beer cans on the sofa and vodka bottles standing upright near the fridge, and rum bottles tipped over close to the sink, and the music is blaring and people are climbing up on the tables to dance.
Don’s visited his little brother before they head home for the holidays. He’s got a beer in hand now, chatting to a pretty girl with his hair mussed up in that dorky sexy way of his--Charlie turns away from that thought uneasily. Comes face to face with remembering: how he lay in bed one night and imagined Don’s hair between his fingers as his older brother blew him, both sprawled out on the bed with Charlie’s pants shoved down and legs spread wide, as Don’s tongue teased him lewdly until he moaned uncontrollably, weak at the knees, and as Don took him deep into his throat, sucking hard, until he couldn’t breathe. And it felt so wrong and so dirty and so good and he came, startled, eyes huge as he swore in the darkness.
Charlie shoves that thought aside, roughly, and swigs at his beer.
There’s drunken stumbling on the tables now, people laughing and clutching at each other with little shrieks and whoops. A couple’s making out noisily in the corner, crawling all over each other, tongues sliding and rubbing together. Somewhere a bunch of guys bellow with laughter and slosh glasses. The music’s beat pounds into his head, throbbing hard, and it’s too hot and stuffy and loud, and he wants to retreat to somewhere quiet and cool where he can lose himself in Schanuel's conjecture.
Suddenly, in a corner, a tall buzz-cut guy in a hockey jersey shoves another guy, shouting drunkenly. The second guy shoves back, spitting, and the first guy grabs at his shirt.
“Hey, guys--” Don’s there, out of nowhere, wrestling his way through the crowd. “Guys. Knock it off, okay? The police--”
“Fuck off, asshole,” the first one snarls at him, and swings a beefy fist and punches him. There’s a sickening silence as Don reels backwards, clutching his face and stumbling, and Charlie swears he can feel his heart seize up and stop.
Then Don punches back, and this time Charlie sees it--he doesn’t have his eyes screwed up tight trying not to cry, he’s not cowering by the slides--and the guy goes down flat. The second guy wavers drunkenly as Don turns to look at him, head lolling about and eyes crossing as he tries to muster a menacing glare, then also collapses.
There’s a sudden wave of relieved, almost hysterical laughter, rippling through the room, and Don is clapped on the back and handed another drink as he’s absorbed back into the crowd. Amid the cheering and loud excited chattering, Don’s eyes meet Charlie’s--Don’s left eyes is already looking puffy--and there’s the sudden feeling that they’d both take each other’s hands shyly, and feel each other’s fingers warm around their own as they held on tight, and Don catches his breath at the same time Charlie catches his.
When Don is twenty-two and Charlie is sixteen, Charlie learns that heroes are in danger, and it doesn’t matter.
5.
When Don is twenty-eight and Charlie is twenty-two, Charlie wins his first award.
There’s clapping all around the podium, lightbulbs going off, watches and jewelry twinkling out in the darkness surrounding the tables as he stands to make his speech. The glittering ceiling soars above them.
Charlie stands there, grinning like an idiot as he clutches his award for mathematical brilliance, and clears his throat. “Hi. Um. Wow, uh... wow. Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity...”
Later, his head swimming on champagne and handshaking and posing with big smiles for photos, he heads for the bathroom. There’s barely anyone in the hallway, a few people slipping past the doors; it’s practically deserted. He smoothes back his hair vainly and tries to straighten his tie, and freezes as he hears his father’s raised voice.
“--proud of Charlie?”
“Of course I am, Dad, I love Charlie, he’s my little brother,” Don’s voice, tight and angry, snaps back. “I just wish you’d have asked once how I was doing with Kim, or at the FBI--”
“Christ almighty, Don, do you always have to be like this? Can’t you let your brother have one night?”
“I let my brother have my lifetime!” Don’s voice strains at this point, breaking. “Every moment, every time he always comes first, he’s always better and brighter and smarter than me, and I don’t mind, Dad, because he is, but is it too selfish to ask for a few minutes with you just by myself?”
Charlie’s heart is somewhere around the soles of his shoes as he steps backwards, and there’s something very big and aching in his throat as he swallows hard. He fumbles with the bathroom door and ducks into a stall inside, stays there for a long while. When he comes out and splashes cold water over his face, he tells himself it’s because he’s hot and sweaty with being out in the crowd for so long.
When he comes out, Don’s standing alone, waiting for his own bathroom stall. Don looks up and sees his stricken face, and understands in an instant. “Charlie--oh, fuck, I’m sorry, Dad and I didn’t mean you to hear that...”
“I’m interested,” Charlie says awkwardly, stumbling over the clumsy words in his mouth. “I care about what you do, who you’re with--”
“I know. I know you do. It’s okay, buddy,” and Don takes his hand shyly, and his fingers are warm around Charlie’s as he holds on tight, and then he draws Charlie into a hug in the middle of the hallway and Charlie hangs on, curling into his shoulder the same way he did when he was three. “It’s okay, Charlie. We’re all keyed up tonight, it’s a really big thing for you, and... well, Dad and I aren’t taking home any prizes for intelligence.”
Charlie laughs a bit at that, watery, and Don draws back and gently pokes him. “I’m proud of you, buddy. I really am.”
It’s the best thing in the world Charlie could hear.
When Don is twenty-eight and Charlie is twenty-two, Charlie learns that heroes are just ordinary people underneath.
6.
When Don is thirty-six and Charlie is thirty, there’s a kidnapped girl trapped down an abandoned quarry.
“Look, Colby, don’t argue, just page the results to Forensics--Megan, hey, Megan! Where’s the gear? We need to get down there--” Don is barking out orders, dressed in SWAT uniform, gun slung under his shoulder and holsters strapped on, as the teams mill about the van.
“Paramedics are unloading, they’ve got the equipment in the back,” Megan calls back, as an emergency worker flies past her. “Wells is going to suit us up, over here...”
Don joins her to have bits of electronics wired around his gear, standing restlessly and fiddling as Wells fastens a micro-camera to his vest lapel. “Charlie,” he says urgently, nodding to his brother who sits in the back and scribbles on a notepad feverishly. “You double-checked your equations?”
Charlie shifts the book he’s sitting on and holds up the pad, triumphantly, always eager to help. “Done. There’s no mistake, everything triangulates to this position. This is your guy, Don.”
“Good.” Don nods at him again, and the look in his eyes--only for Charlie, in that moment--is grateful. Charlie swallows as the surveillance image flickers to life on the screen as the camera blinks, and Don swivels around slowly. “I’ll see you back here when Megan and I’ve got Alicia. Don’t leave the van, okay?”
Charlie promises and Don’s shoulders unwind just a bit, as if he needed that promise to feel safer, and then they’re calling for Don and Megan to grab their things and they disappear into the crowd. Charlie looks down at his numbers, scribbled on his pad, and tries to forget things, to get into that silent cool headspace where everything’s infinitely clear and precise. Fails; his mind is too full of Don, and nervous worry.
The two agents fan out through the quarry with their fellow teammates on a signal, ducking low, guns at the ready. Don keeps to the shadows, moving in and out of old girders and skeletal beams, footprints shuffling up faint gray clouds of dust and gravel. He’s silent, tensed, barely daring to breathe. Megan is briefly visible on the other side of the quarry, a pinpoint of color in her bright red blouse, and then disappears again.
He comes to an empty mine shaft and peers down, flicking his flashlight on. There are scuffmarks around the edge of the shaft, as if something was dragged there, traces of a struggle--a recent fight. “Backup to sector 9-B,” he says quietly, into his microphone, then unhooks his climbing gear.
The descent is slow, and unsteady; his hook grates against the steel, sliding forward, and he has to balance himself against the jagged rock edges. His breathing seems unnaturally loud in the mineshaft, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Don grips at the rock face, boots scuffling at the ledges, and eases himself further down.
There’s an eerie sound in this shaft, like wind whistling low, a moaning sound, and chills are creeping up Don’s spine, and then as it gets pitch-black and his flashlight circles the shadows crazily, he hears it: it’s a human voice, demented beyond all reason, sobbing aloud.
“FBI,” he calls hoarsely into the darkness, his throat dry as he swallows. He’s hovering precariously over the darkness, his boots kicking against nothing. “Steven Audsley, you’re under arrest--”
A gunshot scatters across the rock, ricocheting, pebbles dislodging and showering him, and Don swears as his harness swings wildly. There’s another gunshot, blasting up through the black, that goes wild and misses, and Don shines his flashlight directly into Steven Audsley’s eyes.
The man is white-faced, gaunt, staring as his chest heaves. He’s got Alicia clutched tight in his arms, a tiny Alicia in flower-print pink dress who struggles and kicks against him, and there is dirt and blood under his fingernails and he’s already half-buried them underneath the rocks. Don goes cold all over.
“Put down your gun!” he bellows, swaying on the harness, aiming his own rifle. “Put down your weapon and...”
The third shot doesn’t miss, and Don gasps with sudden agony as his rifle clatters out of his bloodied hand and falls to the ground. The next shots dislodge the rock face completely with a loud crash, and Don’s harness falls apart, and they all tumble to the ground in pitch-blackness and an avalanche of rocks and blinding pain.
Don doesn’t really remember a lot of what happened next. His head was hit, hard, and he was dizzy and blood was streaming down his face as he clawed his way through the rocks. They were pressing down on him, suffocating him under their weight, and he was going to be buried alive under here--
He remembers fighting off Steven Audsley’s groping hands, frantic shaking fingers. He remembers burrowing frantically, unable to breathe, choking, his fingers raw and scrabbling--we need spoons, Charlie, find a spoon, he thought dazedly at one point--and finally, finally, oh, God, no air left, can’t see, his hands closing around a tiny girls’ hand with painted pink nail polish.
And gathering her shakily into his arms, digging her out, brushing mud and dirt and tears off her face. And fumbling in the darkness, his flashlight broken, his boots unsteady and sliding as he stumbled forward dizzily, his heart ready to burst open, can’t stand up, can’t see, can’t breathe, no air left, have to go on...
And his hand closing around the ropes, and tugging, and holding on as they were pulled up into life and light and air.
He remembers gasping, his chest heaving. He remembers people crowded around, Alicia crying, Megan dragging up paramedics with a stretcher, everyone shouting. Lots of shining flashing lights, lots of faces, blurring all around him.
And Charlie. Charlie, face dead white, Charlie, disheveled and wild-eyed, Charlie is all Don sees, and Charlie catches at his brother’s hand urgently, and Charlie’s fingers are warm around his and Don’s fingers are warm around Charlie’s, and they both hold on tight.
When Don was thirty-six and Charlie was thirty, Charlie learned that heroes are ordinary people who do extraordinary things.