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Entry tags:
Monday, Monday.
Hookerfic in which I try a novel and crazy approach: putting Don and Charlie in the same room. Which is sort of like them having sex, right?
Homeward
Don stood in the doorway for a minute, staring at his empty bed and trying to think. It was past four in the morning, and all the talent who weren't doing overnights should have been off-duty. Charlie wasn't on the overnight list; tomorrow was Charlie's day off.
They both had the day off, in fact, and most of the next day as well. They had a standing arrangement to get their days off together as much as possible, and usually got the functional equivalent of a weekend together every two or three weeks. He hadn't seen Charlie, or even heard his name on the security channel, in hours. Charlie ought to have been here by now.
Don hit the call button on the keypad by the door and said, "Dispatch, where's Charlie?"
"Off the clock, that's where," said Billy's voice, and Don winced. He'd forgotten who was running the call center overnight. But Billy only held out on him for a second before reporting, "Monitor shows he went into the clinic after his last client at 1:13. Green tag."
Don frowned. "When did he check out?"
Billy was silent for several seconds, and Don was already turning on his heel as the faint tinny voice said, "He didn't."
Don took the stairs, because he couldn't be still long enough to wait for an elevator, and they were always slow at this hour, with the whole peak-hours crew heading off-shift. He passed a few people on the stairs, but barely saw them, let alone spoke.
Charlie had gone into clinic with a green tag--no serious injuries, no reason for concern--nearly three hours ago, and he hadn't come out. Don's brain cycled through the possibilities as he walked to the clinic, taking long strides that didn't quite turn into a run. Unsuspected internal injury; bad drug reaction; allergic reaction to the black market medicine they all used like goddamn candy. Positive test result.
Not that, not that, not after all this time, not when everyone here was so careful. Charlie couldn't be sick.
Don shoved through the doors into the clinic, and Aidan, the overnight front-line nurse, looked up. "Hey, Don," he said.
Don nodded distractedly and said, "Charlie?" He was in Charlie's file as next of kin, and held the authority to make medical decisions for Charlie if they needed making; no one ever hesitated to give him Charlie's information on the rare occasions he asked for it.
Aidan frowned. "What about him?"
Don gritted his teeth and then forced himself to hold still and take a breath. "Where is he?"
Aidan tapped at his keyboard for a minute, and held his hand up, fingers spread, before he looked from the screen to Don. "Don, he's fine. Everything's fine, health-wise, okay?"
Don closed his eyes and breathed. "So where...?"
"Recovery, bed three," Aidan said. "Looks like he just grabbed a cot and crashed instead of going back out on the floor."
Don opened his eyes. Finishing up after one in the morning, Charlie wouldn't have had to go back out on the floor; he could have gone down to quarters, even to his own room once cleanup was done with it. He'd stayed in the clinic instead. Aidan gave Don a wry smile--he knew all of that as well as Don did--and Don nodded and headed past him, toward recovery.
The curtain was drawn halfway around bed three, blocking it from the corridor side. Don walked around and sat down on the edge of bed four.
Charlie was curled up on top of the blanket on bed three, dressed in sweatpants and a scrub shirt. There was glitter on the side of his face that Don could see, highlighting his right cheekbone and sparkling in his eyebrow. His hand was in a fist, his knuckles pressed to his mouth, like in his sleep he forgot that he'd quit sucking his thumb twenty-one years ago.
He was curled up tightly, so small on the bed. He never looked that small when he was awake; his brilliance and his personality always made him into a bigger presence. Only now, curled in on himself in sleep, did Don see his baby brother, the one he'd promised he'd take care of.
Doing great so far, Don thought, not for the first time. He forced himself up on unsteady legs, to cross the space between the beds and touch Charlie's shoulder. Charlie's eyes opened right away, and his lips twitched halfway toward a smile, but there was something guarded in his sleepy gaze, a tension in the muscle under Don's hand. Don took a step back. Charlie would have been in Don's bed hours ago if he wanted to be.
"Hey," Don said softly.
Charlie muttered, "Hey," back and sat up, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing his face. Don stared down at the curve of his brother's back, the mop of dark curls parting at the back of his neck.
"Feeling all right?" Don asked, though he thought he knew the answer. Charlie got into these moods more and more often as time went on, and Don felt just as sick and helpless every time.
Charlie looked up with a wry, weary smile, and Don's chest went tight. Bingo. "Yeah," Charlie said, "Yeah, just--tired."
Don nodded.
Charlie looked down again, nodding as his fingers tangled between his knees. "Yeah," Charlie said again, in the same low, dismissive tone. "Just. You know. Been officially having sex with people for money for a couple of years now."
One year, ten months, sixteen days, but Don wasn't about to correct Charlie on anything numerical. They both knew exactly how long it had been. Don stared at what he could see of Charlie's downturned face, his throat tight with the words he wanted to say. You don't have to do this. We could walk away. I could take care of you. We did fine before.
It was all he ever wanted to say when Charlie got like this--it was all he ever wanted to say ever, really, but Charlie would brush it off in other moods. If Don said it now, Charlie would only get defensive--more defensive than he already was, in anticipation. Charlie's weary sadness would turn to defiant fury, and Don's protective guilt would turn to possessive rage, and they'd have yet another vicious, lacerating fight about their life. Tonight would be the seventh in one year, ten months, and sixteen days, as soon as Don opened his mouth--with the late-night clinic staff as an audience, for a change of pace. All he'd wanted was to get off shift and curl up next to Charlie and have a day off with him tomorrow and not think about any of this for thirty-six hours or so.
Don swallowed hard. It wasn't him Charlie had been avoiding; it wasn't him Charlie was trying to hide from right now, right in front of him. It was this fight they were about to have, yet again--Don always lost when they fought, but that didn't mean Charlie ever won.
Don recognized one of those rare moments when it was his turn to be the smart brother. "Hey," he said, crossing half the distance between them. "Come here." Charlie looked up, startled, his face naked and hopeful in a way that hurt even more than his weariness. Don spread his arms a little. "Come home."
Charlie smiled fleetingly, but it was a real smile, and then he tipped forward, nearly falling off the bed before Don leaned in to meet him. Charlie buried his face against Don's shoulder, wrapped his arms around Don's hips, and muttered, "Okay," against his shirt.
Don smiled, closing his own arms around Charlie. "Now come downstairs with me, huh?"
Charlie nodded and slid down off the bed, pressed up against Don even before his feet reached the floor, but they stayed right where they were for a few minutes, holding on and enjoying the silence.
Homeward
Don stood in the doorway for a minute, staring at his empty bed and trying to think. It was past four in the morning, and all the talent who weren't doing overnights should have been off-duty. Charlie wasn't on the overnight list; tomorrow was Charlie's day off.
They both had the day off, in fact, and most of the next day as well. They had a standing arrangement to get their days off together as much as possible, and usually got the functional equivalent of a weekend together every two or three weeks. He hadn't seen Charlie, or even heard his name on the security channel, in hours. Charlie ought to have been here by now.
Don hit the call button on the keypad by the door and said, "Dispatch, where's Charlie?"
"Off the clock, that's where," said Billy's voice, and Don winced. He'd forgotten who was running the call center overnight. But Billy only held out on him for a second before reporting, "Monitor shows he went into the clinic after his last client at 1:13. Green tag."
Don frowned. "When did he check out?"
Billy was silent for several seconds, and Don was already turning on his heel as the faint tinny voice said, "He didn't."
Don took the stairs, because he couldn't be still long enough to wait for an elevator, and they were always slow at this hour, with the whole peak-hours crew heading off-shift. He passed a few people on the stairs, but barely saw them, let alone spoke.
Charlie had gone into clinic with a green tag--no serious injuries, no reason for concern--nearly three hours ago, and he hadn't come out. Don's brain cycled through the possibilities as he walked to the clinic, taking long strides that didn't quite turn into a run. Unsuspected internal injury; bad drug reaction; allergic reaction to the black market medicine they all used like goddamn candy. Positive test result.
Not that, not that, not after all this time, not when everyone here was so careful. Charlie couldn't be sick.
Don shoved through the doors into the clinic, and Aidan, the overnight front-line nurse, looked up. "Hey, Don," he said.
Don nodded distractedly and said, "Charlie?" He was in Charlie's file as next of kin, and held the authority to make medical decisions for Charlie if they needed making; no one ever hesitated to give him Charlie's information on the rare occasions he asked for it.
Aidan frowned. "What about him?"
Don gritted his teeth and then forced himself to hold still and take a breath. "Where is he?"
Aidan tapped at his keyboard for a minute, and held his hand up, fingers spread, before he looked from the screen to Don. "Don, he's fine. Everything's fine, health-wise, okay?"
Don closed his eyes and breathed. "So where...?"
"Recovery, bed three," Aidan said. "Looks like he just grabbed a cot and crashed instead of going back out on the floor."
Don opened his eyes. Finishing up after one in the morning, Charlie wouldn't have had to go back out on the floor; he could have gone down to quarters, even to his own room once cleanup was done with it. He'd stayed in the clinic instead. Aidan gave Don a wry smile--he knew all of that as well as Don did--and Don nodded and headed past him, toward recovery.
The curtain was drawn halfway around bed three, blocking it from the corridor side. Don walked around and sat down on the edge of bed four.
Charlie was curled up on top of the blanket on bed three, dressed in sweatpants and a scrub shirt. There was glitter on the side of his face that Don could see, highlighting his right cheekbone and sparkling in his eyebrow. His hand was in a fist, his knuckles pressed to his mouth, like in his sleep he forgot that he'd quit sucking his thumb twenty-one years ago.
He was curled up tightly, so small on the bed. He never looked that small when he was awake; his brilliance and his personality always made him into a bigger presence. Only now, curled in on himself in sleep, did Don see his baby brother, the one he'd promised he'd take care of.
Doing great so far, Don thought, not for the first time. He forced himself up on unsteady legs, to cross the space between the beds and touch Charlie's shoulder. Charlie's eyes opened right away, and his lips twitched halfway toward a smile, but there was something guarded in his sleepy gaze, a tension in the muscle under Don's hand. Don took a step back. Charlie would have been in Don's bed hours ago if he wanted to be.
"Hey," Don said softly.
Charlie muttered, "Hey," back and sat up, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing his face. Don stared down at the curve of his brother's back, the mop of dark curls parting at the back of his neck.
"Feeling all right?" Don asked, though he thought he knew the answer. Charlie got into these moods more and more often as time went on, and Don felt just as sick and helpless every time.
Charlie looked up with a wry, weary smile, and Don's chest went tight. Bingo. "Yeah," Charlie said, "Yeah, just--tired."
Don nodded.
Charlie looked down again, nodding as his fingers tangled between his knees. "Yeah," Charlie said again, in the same low, dismissive tone. "Just. You know. Been officially having sex with people for money for a couple of years now."
One year, ten months, sixteen days, but Don wasn't about to correct Charlie on anything numerical. They both knew exactly how long it had been. Don stared at what he could see of Charlie's downturned face, his throat tight with the words he wanted to say. You don't have to do this. We could walk away. I could take care of you. We did fine before.
It was all he ever wanted to say when Charlie got like this--it was all he ever wanted to say ever, really, but Charlie would brush it off in other moods. If Don said it now, Charlie would only get defensive--more defensive than he already was, in anticipation. Charlie's weary sadness would turn to defiant fury, and Don's protective guilt would turn to possessive rage, and they'd have yet another vicious, lacerating fight about their life. Tonight would be the seventh in one year, ten months, and sixteen days, as soon as Don opened his mouth--with the late-night clinic staff as an audience, for a change of pace. All he'd wanted was to get off shift and curl up next to Charlie and have a day off with him tomorrow and not think about any of this for thirty-six hours or so.
Don swallowed hard. It wasn't him Charlie had been avoiding; it wasn't him Charlie was trying to hide from right now, right in front of him. It was this fight they were about to have, yet again--Don always lost when they fought, but that didn't mean Charlie ever won.
Don recognized one of those rare moments when it was his turn to be the smart brother. "Hey," he said, crossing half the distance between them. "Come here." Charlie looked up, startled, his face naked and hopeful in a way that hurt even more than his weariness. Don spread his arms a little. "Come home."
Charlie smiled fleetingly, but it was a real smile, and then he tipped forward, nearly falling off the bed before Don leaned in to meet him. Charlie buried his face against Don's shoulder, wrapped his arms around Don's hips, and muttered, "Okay," against his shirt.
Don smiled, closing his own arms around Charlie. "Now come downstairs with me, huh?"
Charlie nodded and slid down off the bed, pressed up against Don even before his feet reached the floor, but they stayed right where they were for a few minutes, holding on and enjoying the silence.