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Ein Kleines Mehr Hookerfik
A little more hoookerfic, still meanderingly h/c and still with no actual sex. Follows directly from the first part, which is here.
At the End of the Day (With apologies to anyone who gets the song, or the image of Charlie as Fantine, stuck in their head for the rest of the day. I know I'm already regretting it.)
Don kept his arm carefully around Charlie without touching him anywhere but his hip, as they walked down the back corridor to the service elevator. Charlie appreciated both the touch and the not-touch; David would have tried the same but not pulled it off quite as smoothly. Colby would have offered to carry him and then walked with his hands in his pockets when Charlie declined. Billy would have slung Charlie over his shoulder, and laughed if he objected.
The service elevator arrived quickly, and Charlie stepped inside and turned automatically to face the doors, making Don drop his hand. There were no mirrors in these elevators, just the brushed steel of the doors showing a dim, blurry reflection. Charlie was a column of blue and then tan, capped with dark hair, and Don, beside him, was all darkness but for the skin showing at his forearms, his throat and his face.
Charlie looked away from their ghostly reflections, leaning his cheek against Don's shoulder. His fingers still felt stiff and his fingertips hurt a little. He flexed them idly, and then smiled and raised them to Don's side, arching his fingers neatly as he played the pattern of a scale against Don's ribs.
"Wrists up, Mr. Eppes," Don said out of the side of his mouth, nailing Mrs. Petrie's inflection so exactly that Charlie's wrists snapped into correct position before he could think. He stuck his tongue out at Don as the elevator doors slid open, and then frowned, disoriented. They were on the clinic floor, not quarters. He'd thought from the way Don had declared him green that he wouldn't be getting checked tonight.
Don propelled him out of the elevator with a light smack on the ass. "Come on, quick stop, then we're done."
Charlie trailed after Don to the dispensary window, wondering what Don was after. The dispensary would give out condoms and things on demand, but they weren't running low, and Don didn't usually want to fuck after a long shift anyway. As they got closer, though, Charlie recognized one of the bartenders holding down the desk, probably filling in for a dispensary nurse; the clinic had to be busy if green tags weren't getting checked.
"Hey, Megan," Don said, smiling as they reached the counter. "Get me a beer?"
Megan rolled her eyes, but smiled impartially at them both. "Only if you've got a scrip on file."
"Yeah," Don said, his voice dropping as he leaned in slightly. "About that."
Megan glanced at Charlie, and tapped a few keys on the computer in front of her. Pulling up Charlie's file, presumably, because after a second she looked back at Don and raised an eyebrow. "About that?"
Don touched Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie turned, showing her his back. "He's not scheduled for a check until tomorrow morning, but we both know the doc would prescribe him a tube of that magic blue stuff. Give it to him now, save everybody some time."
Charlie glanced up at Don without turning his head. It wouldn't save any particular time, since Charlie would have to be checked in the morning whether he was visibly injured or not; it would only save Charlie several hours of discomfort and a restless night's sleep--and save Don having to know he was hurting without any treatment.
Charlie flexed his shoulders and bowed his head, trying to look as pathetic as possible for Megan. He knew she had a soft spot for him--most of the security and support staff did, because of Don--and if she had to say no it would throw Don off for a whole day. Behind him, Megan heaved a put-upon sigh. "It's going in his file that I dispensed this stuff, I'm not having Doc ask anybody how a whip-cut magically disappeared overnight without treatment." Charlie turned as she spoke, but she was already getting up, going to the ointments cabinet and tapping in her code.
Charlie dared a glance over at Don, who was watching him. Don wasn't smiling, but his eyes were intent, as though Charlie were the only thing in the world. It was always a little disturbing to get that look from clients, but from Don it just made him feel warm all over and smile back stupidly. Maybe because Don knew what his name was.
"Okay, you two," Megan said, the clack of keys startling Don and Charlie into looking back at her. "Get a room. Charlie," she held out the small blue tube. It was entirely blank. This was the good stuff, and it was only ever dispensed to talent, so she had to give it to him directly, not even to Don to hold for him. Charlie held out his hand palm up. Gesturing at him with the small tube, Megan said firmly, "External use only. If you experience any burning, tingling, numbness, or any respiratory or any other adverse effects, call for medical attention without delay."
"Yes, mistress," Charlie murmured, smiling, and Megan rolled her eyes, dropped the tube on his palm and smacked him lightly on the side of the head. Don's hand closed around his left wrist, above the marks left by the cord, his thumb rubbing lightly at the indented skin. Charlie felt the touch all over his body, and Megan shook her head, still smiling, as Charlie turned away, following Don back down the hall to the elevator.
Don's room was another two floors down. Charlie, if he'd wanted a single-use non-working room of his own, could have paid to rent one another corridor over, but it was far more efficient to share. Don tapped in the door code and ushered Charlie in ahead of him, and Charlie gravitated instantly to the small chalkboard in the corner. He dropped the tube of ointment on the desk as he passed it, picking up a piece of chalk instead.
Don didn't make a sound, and Charlie glanced back for him even as he raised the chalk to the board to scribble down the thought he'd had around hour three of his afternoon's dose of MDMA. Don was just standing in the middle of the room: roughed up, pants stained luridly cherry-red, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Still watching Charlie, smiling tiredly now. He nodded toward the tube on the desk. "You want a hand with that?"
Charlie smiled. "Go take a shower. I can wait."
Don closed the distance between them, set one hand flat to Charlie's belly and kissed him lightly even as he said, "I'll be quick."
Charlie watched him all the way to the bathroom door, and was scribbling at the chalkboard as soon as it closed.
***
Don stepped out of the bathroom, wearing just a pair of sweatpants and still toweling his hair. Charlie was right where Don had left him, standing at the chalkboard, livid stripes across his back and some complex construction in three colors drawn on the board in front of him. In Don's experience, it was never a good sign when Charlie had to bust out the colored chalk.
He stayed in the doorway, watching Charlie until it became clear that Charlie was just staring at the board, and it wouldn't bother him to be interrupted. Some nights, if he'd been on shift all day, Charlie would be glued to his chalkboard until morning. Especially if he'd had some drug-induced inspiration halfway through.
This didn't seem to be one of those nights, though; Charlie ran his right hand through his hair, dusting it faintly green with chalk and drawing Don's eye to the ugly cut under his shoulder blade. Don dropped the towel and moved until he was close enough to put his hands on Charlie's hips and his chin on Charlie's shoulder, careful not to touch his back. Charlie transferred his hand, and probably more green chalk dust, to Don's hair, and they stood that way for a few breaths, both looking at the board. It was more like abstract art than usual, and after a minute, Don said, "Verdict?"
Charlie sighed. "Well, I was high."
Don grinned and kissed his ear. "Come on, lie down and I'll do your back."
Charlie snorted. "You know that's not the first time I've heard that today." But he went and flopped down on the bed, and Don grabbed the little blue tube and sat down beside him. The stuff in the tube wasn't actually blue; it was a cloudy translucent gel that felt cool on Don's fingertips. He smeared it thickly over the cut, first of all, and then systematically applied it to each red line on Charlie's back. He didn't know what the stuff was, everybody just knew that Al had contacts, that he could get stuff. For all Don knew it really was magic, but it sure as hell wasn't FDA-approved.
Not that it mattered much. In the morning the cut on Charlie's back would be closed, and the welts would be gone, and in two days there wouldn't be so much as a mark left to show that Charlie's pain was for sale every bit as much as his ass. It could be made of ground-up unicorns and baby harp seals and Don would still be glad Charlie had it.
The reddened skin was warm under Don's fingers, the heat of irritation bleeding through the coolness of the ointment. Don rubbed it in carefully on every mark, until he had to admit he was just petting Charlie, not helping. "Okay," he said, letting his hand slide down onto Charlie's pajama pants. "You're good."
"Mmmm," Charlie replied, half asleep facedown on the bed, but he pushed himself up onto his elbows, and then sat up all the way, curling around to face Don. "Is there any left?"
Don handed him the little tube. It was nearly all gone; the blue stuff was a controlled substance, talent-only, issued in small quantities to prevent a black market from developing belowstairs. Don opened his mouth to ask Charlie where he wanted to use the last of it, but Charlie caught Don's hand, silencing him. He bit his lip and watched as Charlie carefully squeezed out a bit of gel over Don's knuckles, scraped in that night's fight. Charlie's hands were warm around his, and the stuff felt good on his broken skin, and tomorrow he wouldn't have to worry so much about where he put his hand. Don cleared his throat. "So I'm supposed to watch out for a tingling sensation?"
Charlie looked up and smiled, then dropped a kiss on the back of Don's hand. "Tingling, burning, or numbness. Or if you stop breathing."
"Right," Don muttered, shaking his head, but he got to his feet and went to the door. He punched in a status code on the keypad, switching himself from 'Available/On Call' to 'Do Not Disturb,' and shut off the lights.
He laid down carefully on the bed, firmly on his own side, and let Charlie come over, arranging himself comfortably half on top of Don, where nothing would touch his back. Don let his hand settle on the back of Charlie's neck, where it always seemed to fit just right, and said, "Busy day tomorrow?"
"Nah," Charlie said. "No floor shift, just appointments, and I think I only have one." Don nodded, mentally reviewing his own schedule--he was on the floor for the quiet afternoon hours, and then splitting dispatch on the ladies' floor with Terry, half his time running the call center and the other half sitting in the call center as part of the rapid-response security team. Charlie nudged him a little and added, "It's your favorite," and it took Don a minute to realize Charlie was talking about his afternoon appointment, and not Don's shift on the rapid-response team, which was his favorite, in a guilty way. It wasn't that he ever wanted to see the talent hurt, it was just that going in hot in the private rooms was a hell of a lot more fun than wrangling drunks on the main floor.
"My fa--" Don repeated, and then realized that tomorrow would be the first Wednesday of the month, and Charlie had an afternoon appointment, as always. "Has he figured out yet that he's paying you to have sex with him?"
Charlie huffed a laugh against Don's shoulder. He'd diagnosed Don months ago as being jealous of Mr. First Wednesday Two O'Clock, and had gone right on being entertained by everything Don said about him ever since. "He pays very well not to ever have to figure that out," Charlie said primly, like something straight out of one of Al's lectures on catering to the clients.
Don responded with a low noise, almost a growl, that made Charlie shake with laughter against his side, and in the darkness he didn't have to hide the fact that it was a little more sincere than Charlie probably realized.
It was Charlie's job to be able to converse with clients, to give them the complete experience of his company along with sex, but he actually studied for the first Wednesday of every month. Afterward he'd be at his chalkboard for days, working out everything he'd discussed with his client. If Don asked, he'd stop and try to explain some little piece of what he was doing, making up elaborate analogies that Don could tell still didn't convey a tenth of what was going on.
Lots of Charlie's clients wanted to rescue him: something like forty percent overall, going up to nearly three-quarters of the women but including a healthy proportion of the men. Charlie had that way about him. Everyone wanted to take him home. But only one of them could offer Charlie math. The guy had to be good, to afford this place, to afford Charlie--a professor at least, probably at UCLA or Stanford or CalSci--and that meant he had contacts that would mean a million times more to Charlie than whoever Al hit up for drugs and toys and security hardware. He could offer Charlie something like the life he should have had, the one Charlie hadn't had so much as a glimpse of since Princeton.
Don ran his hand up into Charlie's hair, letting the curls wrap around his fingers. "Charlie," he muttered. "You would tell me if you needed rescuing, right?"
Charlie moved, his chin hard against Don's chest, and in the faint light of the keypad by the door and the nightlight in the bathroom, Don could see Charlie's face. "Do you have a daring plan to whisk me away from all this?"
Don nodded, letting his hand slide back down to the nape of Charlie's neck. "I've been working on it, I think I've got it all figured out."
Charlie nodded slowly back. "Does it start with the part where we both give Al thirty days' notice and spend the whole month signing all our nondisclosure agreements?"
"That's Plan A, yeah," Don said. "But I have a Plan B, too."
"Oooh," Charlie murmured, settling back down to rest his head on Don's chest. "It's good to have a Plan B."
"I've got a million of 'em," Don said, and then, when Charlie was lying very still under his hand, he added, "You would tell me, right?"
He felt a brush of lips against his chest, and the warmth of Charlie's breath as he said, "I'm not going anywhere without you."
Don smiled and closed his eyes, and Charlie added around a yawn, "Except playroom three, tomorrow, because I think you would make my client nervous."
At the End of the Day (With apologies to anyone who gets the song, or the image of Charlie as Fantine, stuck in their head for the rest of the day. I know I'm already regretting it.)
Don kept his arm carefully around Charlie without touching him anywhere but his hip, as they walked down the back corridor to the service elevator. Charlie appreciated both the touch and the not-touch; David would have tried the same but not pulled it off quite as smoothly. Colby would have offered to carry him and then walked with his hands in his pockets when Charlie declined. Billy would have slung Charlie over his shoulder, and laughed if he objected.
The service elevator arrived quickly, and Charlie stepped inside and turned automatically to face the doors, making Don drop his hand. There were no mirrors in these elevators, just the brushed steel of the doors showing a dim, blurry reflection. Charlie was a column of blue and then tan, capped with dark hair, and Don, beside him, was all darkness but for the skin showing at his forearms, his throat and his face.
Charlie looked away from their ghostly reflections, leaning his cheek against Don's shoulder. His fingers still felt stiff and his fingertips hurt a little. He flexed them idly, and then smiled and raised them to Don's side, arching his fingers neatly as he played the pattern of a scale against Don's ribs.
"Wrists up, Mr. Eppes," Don said out of the side of his mouth, nailing Mrs. Petrie's inflection so exactly that Charlie's wrists snapped into correct position before he could think. He stuck his tongue out at Don as the elevator doors slid open, and then frowned, disoriented. They were on the clinic floor, not quarters. He'd thought from the way Don had declared him green that he wouldn't be getting checked tonight.
Don propelled him out of the elevator with a light smack on the ass. "Come on, quick stop, then we're done."
Charlie trailed after Don to the dispensary window, wondering what Don was after. The dispensary would give out condoms and things on demand, but they weren't running low, and Don didn't usually want to fuck after a long shift anyway. As they got closer, though, Charlie recognized one of the bartenders holding down the desk, probably filling in for a dispensary nurse; the clinic had to be busy if green tags weren't getting checked.
"Hey, Megan," Don said, smiling as they reached the counter. "Get me a beer?"
Megan rolled her eyes, but smiled impartially at them both. "Only if you've got a scrip on file."
"Yeah," Don said, his voice dropping as he leaned in slightly. "About that."
Megan glanced at Charlie, and tapped a few keys on the computer in front of her. Pulling up Charlie's file, presumably, because after a second she looked back at Don and raised an eyebrow. "About that?"
Don touched Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie turned, showing her his back. "He's not scheduled for a check until tomorrow morning, but we both know the doc would prescribe him a tube of that magic blue stuff. Give it to him now, save everybody some time."
Charlie glanced up at Don without turning his head. It wouldn't save any particular time, since Charlie would have to be checked in the morning whether he was visibly injured or not; it would only save Charlie several hours of discomfort and a restless night's sleep--and save Don having to know he was hurting without any treatment.
Charlie flexed his shoulders and bowed his head, trying to look as pathetic as possible for Megan. He knew she had a soft spot for him--most of the security and support staff did, because of Don--and if she had to say no it would throw Don off for a whole day. Behind him, Megan heaved a put-upon sigh. "It's going in his file that I dispensed this stuff, I'm not having Doc ask anybody how a whip-cut magically disappeared overnight without treatment." Charlie turned as she spoke, but she was already getting up, going to the ointments cabinet and tapping in her code.
Charlie dared a glance over at Don, who was watching him. Don wasn't smiling, but his eyes were intent, as though Charlie were the only thing in the world. It was always a little disturbing to get that look from clients, but from Don it just made him feel warm all over and smile back stupidly. Maybe because Don knew what his name was.
"Okay, you two," Megan said, the clack of keys startling Don and Charlie into looking back at her. "Get a room. Charlie," she held out the small blue tube. It was entirely blank. This was the good stuff, and it was only ever dispensed to talent, so she had to give it to him directly, not even to Don to hold for him. Charlie held out his hand palm up. Gesturing at him with the small tube, Megan said firmly, "External use only. If you experience any burning, tingling, numbness, or any respiratory or any other adverse effects, call for medical attention without delay."
"Yes, mistress," Charlie murmured, smiling, and Megan rolled her eyes, dropped the tube on his palm and smacked him lightly on the side of the head. Don's hand closed around his left wrist, above the marks left by the cord, his thumb rubbing lightly at the indented skin. Charlie felt the touch all over his body, and Megan shook her head, still smiling, as Charlie turned away, following Don back down the hall to the elevator.
Don's room was another two floors down. Charlie, if he'd wanted a single-use non-working room of his own, could have paid to rent one another corridor over, but it was far more efficient to share. Don tapped in the door code and ushered Charlie in ahead of him, and Charlie gravitated instantly to the small chalkboard in the corner. He dropped the tube of ointment on the desk as he passed it, picking up a piece of chalk instead.
Don didn't make a sound, and Charlie glanced back for him even as he raised the chalk to the board to scribble down the thought he'd had around hour three of his afternoon's dose of MDMA. Don was just standing in the middle of the room: roughed up, pants stained luridly cherry-red, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Still watching Charlie, smiling tiredly now. He nodded toward the tube on the desk. "You want a hand with that?"
Charlie smiled. "Go take a shower. I can wait."
Don closed the distance between them, set one hand flat to Charlie's belly and kissed him lightly even as he said, "I'll be quick."
Charlie watched him all the way to the bathroom door, and was scribbling at the chalkboard as soon as it closed.
***
Don stepped out of the bathroom, wearing just a pair of sweatpants and still toweling his hair. Charlie was right where Don had left him, standing at the chalkboard, livid stripes across his back and some complex construction in three colors drawn on the board in front of him. In Don's experience, it was never a good sign when Charlie had to bust out the colored chalk.
He stayed in the doorway, watching Charlie until it became clear that Charlie was just staring at the board, and it wouldn't bother him to be interrupted. Some nights, if he'd been on shift all day, Charlie would be glued to his chalkboard until morning. Especially if he'd had some drug-induced inspiration halfway through.
This didn't seem to be one of those nights, though; Charlie ran his right hand through his hair, dusting it faintly green with chalk and drawing Don's eye to the ugly cut under his shoulder blade. Don dropped the towel and moved until he was close enough to put his hands on Charlie's hips and his chin on Charlie's shoulder, careful not to touch his back. Charlie transferred his hand, and probably more green chalk dust, to Don's hair, and they stood that way for a few breaths, both looking at the board. It was more like abstract art than usual, and after a minute, Don said, "Verdict?"
Charlie sighed. "Well, I was high."
Don grinned and kissed his ear. "Come on, lie down and I'll do your back."
Charlie snorted. "You know that's not the first time I've heard that today." But he went and flopped down on the bed, and Don grabbed the little blue tube and sat down beside him. The stuff in the tube wasn't actually blue; it was a cloudy translucent gel that felt cool on Don's fingertips. He smeared it thickly over the cut, first of all, and then systematically applied it to each red line on Charlie's back. He didn't know what the stuff was, everybody just knew that Al had contacts, that he could get stuff. For all Don knew it really was magic, but it sure as hell wasn't FDA-approved.
Not that it mattered much. In the morning the cut on Charlie's back would be closed, and the welts would be gone, and in two days there wouldn't be so much as a mark left to show that Charlie's pain was for sale every bit as much as his ass. It could be made of ground-up unicorns and baby harp seals and Don would still be glad Charlie had it.
The reddened skin was warm under Don's fingers, the heat of irritation bleeding through the coolness of the ointment. Don rubbed it in carefully on every mark, until he had to admit he was just petting Charlie, not helping. "Okay," he said, letting his hand slide down onto Charlie's pajama pants. "You're good."
"Mmmm," Charlie replied, half asleep facedown on the bed, but he pushed himself up onto his elbows, and then sat up all the way, curling around to face Don. "Is there any left?"
Don handed him the little tube. It was nearly all gone; the blue stuff was a controlled substance, talent-only, issued in small quantities to prevent a black market from developing belowstairs. Don opened his mouth to ask Charlie where he wanted to use the last of it, but Charlie caught Don's hand, silencing him. He bit his lip and watched as Charlie carefully squeezed out a bit of gel over Don's knuckles, scraped in that night's fight. Charlie's hands were warm around his, and the stuff felt good on his broken skin, and tomorrow he wouldn't have to worry so much about where he put his hand. Don cleared his throat. "So I'm supposed to watch out for a tingling sensation?"
Charlie looked up and smiled, then dropped a kiss on the back of Don's hand. "Tingling, burning, or numbness. Or if you stop breathing."
"Right," Don muttered, shaking his head, but he got to his feet and went to the door. He punched in a status code on the keypad, switching himself from 'Available/On Call' to 'Do Not Disturb,' and shut off the lights.
He laid down carefully on the bed, firmly on his own side, and let Charlie come over, arranging himself comfortably half on top of Don, where nothing would touch his back. Don let his hand settle on the back of Charlie's neck, where it always seemed to fit just right, and said, "Busy day tomorrow?"
"Nah," Charlie said. "No floor shift, just appointments, and I think I only have one." Don nodded, mentally reviewing his own schedule--he was on the floor for the quiet afternoon hours, and then splitting dispatch on the ladies' floor with Terry, half his time running the call center and the other half sitting in the call center as part of the rapid-response security team. Charlie nudged him a little and added, "It's your favorite," and it took Don a minute to realize Charlie was talking about his afternoon appointment, and not Don's shift on the rapid-response team, which was his favorite, in a guilty way. It wasn't that he ever wanted to see the talent hurt, it was just that going in hot in the private rooms was a hell of a lot more fun than wrangling drunks on the main floor.
"My fa--" Don repeated, and then realized that tomorrow would be the first Wednesday of the month, and Charlie had an afternoon appointment, as always. "Has he figured out yet that he's paying you to have sex with him?"
Charlie huffed a laugh against Don's shoulder. He'd diagnosed Don months ago as being jealous of Mr. First Wednesday Two O'Clock, and had gone right on being entertained by everything Don said about him ever since. "He pays very well not to ever have to figure that out," Charlie said primly, like something straight out of one of Al's lectures on catering to the clients.
Don responded with a low noise, almost a growl, that made Charlie shake with laughter against his side, and in the darkness he didn't have to hide the fact that it was a little more sincere than Charlie probably realized.
It was Charlie's job to be able to converse with clients, to give them the complete experience of his company along with sex, but he actually studied for the first Wednesday of every month. Afterward he'd be at his chalkboard for days, working out everything he'd discussed with his client. If Don asked, he'd stop and try to explain some little piece of what he was doing, making up elaborate analogies that Don could tell still didn't convey a tenth of what was going on.
Lots of Charlie's clients wanted to rescue him: something like forty percent overall, going up to nearly three-quarters of the women but including a healthy proportion of the men. Charlie had that way about him. Everyone wanted to take him home. But only one of them could offer Charlie math. The guy had to be good, to afford this place, to afford Charlie--a professor at least, probably at UCLA or Stanford or CalSci--and that meant he had contacts that would mean a million times more to Charlie than whoever Al hit up for drugs and toys and security hardware. He could offer Charlie something like the life he should have had, the one Charlie hadn't had so much as a glimpse of since Princeton.
Don ran his hand up into Charlie's hair, letting the curls wrap around his fingers. "Charlie," he muttered. "You would tell me if you needed rescuing, right?"
Charlie moved, his chin hard against Don's chest, and in the faint light of the keypad by the door and the nightlight in the bathroom, Don could see Charlie's face. "Do you have a daring plan to whisk me away from all this?"
Don nodded, letting his hand slide back down to the nape of Charlie's neck. "I've been working on it, I think I've got it all figured out."
Charlie nodded slowly back. "Does it start with the part where we both give Al thirty days' notice and spend the whole month signing all our nondisclosure agreements?"
"That's Plan A, yeah," Don said. "But I have a Plan B, too."
"Oooh," Charlie murmured, settling back down to rest his head on Don's chest. "It's good to have a Plan B."
"I've got a million of 'em," Don said, and then, when Charlie was lying very still under his hand, he added, "You would tell me, right?"
He felt a brush of lips against his chest, and the warmth of Charlie's breath as he said, "I'm not going anywhere without you."
Don smiled and closed his eyes, and Charlie added around a yawn, "Except playroom three, tomorrow, because I think you would make my client nervous."