browngirl

Title: All Love's Lemmas Prove
Fandom: Numb3rs
Rating: NC-17 with warnings.
Pairing: Don Eppes/Charlie Eppes; Charlie/Amita discussed.
Summary: He can talk to Charlie, or he can kiss him.
Warnings/Spoilers: Slash, het mentioned. Incest. Set after 4.07 Primacy.

numb3rsficathon Prompt: Anthony Braxton (4.07 Primacy), Space Station, Laptop
All Thanks To:

lomedet, who tirelessly cheered me on, beta-read the final result, and generally helped me stay on track.
Disclaimer: None of these characters or their settings belong to me.
Title from "Love and Tensor Algebra" by Stanislaw Lem

When Don steps out of his after-dinner shower he hears the busy clicking of a keyboard, and grins to himself as he towels his hair. He can also hear Charlie muttering, "no" and "mmph" and "yeah, that, yeah," and when he walks into the bedroom Charlie is naked, lying on his belly and typing on his laptop, sprawled diagonally across just about the whole bed. He's propped up on his elbows, head tipped back, curls brushing his shoulder blades; Don leans against the doorway, his gaze tracing down the shadowed furrow of Charlie's spine between the lean muscles over his ribs, following it to the narrow curve of his ass and his negligently spread thighs. Charlie, in the circle of lamplight, sprawled naked across Don's bed.

Charlie completely ignores Don, waving one arched foot in the air like a kid and nodding at whatever he's reading. Eventually Don looks past Charlie (sprawled, naked, on his bed) and notices that the graphics on the screen seem vaguely familiar. Seen through the edge of Charlie's curls, a glowing green skeleton brandishes an indistinct weapon; Don recognizes the animation, the same style as that online roleplaying game from a couple cases ago.

The dilemmas Don usually has to deal with are rarely as trivial, or as fun, as this one. He could stay in the doorway and ogle Charlie, who's humming thoughtfully and rolling his shoulders, or he could go find out what he's up to. Either way, Don's probably going to end up needing another shower, but it's not that late, not yet.

Don smiles wider than he should let himself, because the gorgeous naked person in his bed is his brother Charlie, lightly bites the corner of his lip, and walks into his bedroom. "Hey, buddy," he murmurs, sitting down, one hand braced on the mattress. "working in bed?" He leans over Charlie, eyeing the smoothness of his back, the squared edge of his shoulder, and when Charlie turns to glance at Don he shifts up right where Don can kiss him.

Charlie makes a surprised little happy noise against Don's mouth, his lips parting, and Don tastes the warmth of his breath and pushes for more, Charlie's head tilting back as Don leans into him. But Charlie's next sound is sharp and startled, jolting through Don, and he twists away, leaving Don gasping and confused; after a couple breaths he opens his eyes to see Charlie pushing the forgotten laptop out of danger. "No, not working," Charlie says, rolling onto his back and leaning on his elbows, his head tipped back and his neck irresistible.

"Mmm-hmm?" Don bites gently at Charlie's Adam's-apple and Charlie huffs a laugh, reaching out to push the laptop further away as he sinks down flat. His other hand slides up into Don's wet hair, fingertips pressing warmly along Don's scalp as he lays overlapping kisses up Charlie's throat. Charlie's sigh is half a moan, his thighs cradling Don's hips, and as long as he's not interrupting Charlie's work Don doesn't care anymore what Charlie was doing before this.

So of course the laptop has to beep right then, and of course Charlie reacts, pulling his hands between them to push at Don's chest. "I should at least sign off," he says, and "augh, Don," because Don is sucking on the spot where Charlie's jaw meets his neck, his tongue flattened against salt-warm skin, keeping the pressure just this side of making a mark. He keeps it up as Charlie's breathing roughens, Charlie's hands shaking on his shoulders; when Charlie's right clenches into a fist over his collarbone, Don grins and lets go.

Don props himself up over Charlie, getting his elbows beneath him, and Charlie rolls his eyes as he pulls in his legs, scooting onto his side. "I'm just going to tell Anthony bye, okay?" He tugs his laptop back into reach. "It's only polite. Weren't you always on my case about being polite?"

"When you were ten," Don mutters into Charlie's hair, chalk dust and conditioner and Charlie filling his nose, the curve of Charlie's ear under his mouth. Charlie's the one who took off his clothes and climbed into Don's bed, even if he brought his computer with him. Don bites down lightly, not hard enough to leave a bruise, and watches Charlie's eye press shut, feels his groan and the shudder all down his side pressed to Don's front.

"God, you're distracting," Charlie mutters, not sounding at all upset, rolling onto his belly and pushing his ass up. "Anyway, Anthony says hi."

Charlie is being distracting right back, arching into Don's mouth on the nape of his neck, Don's dick wedged happily in his crack, and it takes Don a moment or five to actually hear what Charlie said. When he does a surge of panic shoves him back much harder and further than Charlie did. "What?" Scrambling up, Don falls into a sitting position by Charlie's hip. "Charlie, who the hell did you tell what to just now?"

Charlie looks over his shoulder at Don, his shock dissolving into a mischievous smile. "Calm down," he says, shutting his laptop and lowering it to the floor. "I told Anthony I was hanging out with my brother, so he said to tell Agent Eppes hi. Isn't that what we're doing?" Charlie rolls over, sitting up, grin wide and bright. "Hanging out?"

Don's eyebrows hike up so far they tug on his skin. "Uh, I think that would be stretching the term just a little, Chuck. And who's this Anthony?"

"That's why I work with numbers." Charlie leans back on his hands, giving his head that little curl-bouncing toss. "Much more precise. You remember Anthony Braxton, from the case involving the em-em-oh-are-pee-gee, Primacy?"

"Wha--" Don's eyebrows rise even further, if that's possible; it takes him a moment to realize Charlie just recited the initialism 'MMORPG'. He nods, about to say he knows what Charlie's talking about for once, when Charlie leans forward and rubs his palm across Don's forehead. "What was that for?"

"Your forehead's doing that crinkly thing," Charlie explains, his eyes bright, and Don has to laugh. He reaches up to catch Charlie's wrist, feeling him go still, watching his eager little smile; Don kisses Charlie's palm and watches his head tilt back as his smile widens, and when Don tugs he rocks up onto his knees.

Hand flexing in Don's hold, Charlie scoots closer. "So, he's setting up an account for me over there, and we're working on avatars at the moment. Don't tell Amita, okay?"

She flashes across Don's memory, laughing beside Charlie with their heads close together, and he drops Charlie's arm. "Okay," he agrees absently, looking down at his empty hands. He can talk to Charlie about their love lives, or he can kiss him, but he just can't do both. There have to be boundaries, there have to be rules.

Charlie's never paid much attention to rules that aren't math. He leans on Don's shoulder, arm slung diagonally across Don's back, hand sliding around Don's waist. "Or Dad, either, you know how he talks. I want to surprise her."

Don nods, feeling Charlie's sleek weight all down his side. "You're going to join her, what, group thing?"

"Alliance? Maybe I'll start my own." Charlie grins.

Don smiles back as best he can; finding a way to tease Charlie helps. "Really? You're going up on a spaceship too, to show Larry up?"

"Space station," Charlie says in that perfect know-it-all voice, giving Don all the flimsy excuse he needs to tackle him laughing to the bed. "And no," Charlie gasps between kisses as Don straddles him, "no, I'm not, not going anywhere. But--" Charlie's voice changes in just one word, sending a colder shiver down Don's spine. When he looks up Charlie's face is serious, his jaw set, his eyebrows drawn down; Don pushes back a little, and Charlie gets his elbows beneath him again, putting their faces on the same level. "I should be madder at you," he says, "I should be mad at you at all."

"Mad at me for what?" Don asks with mild outrage. "What did I do now?"

"You put Amita in danger," Charlie says, quietly and implacably, worse than a gut-punch. Don drops his head, his forehead landing on Charlie's stomach. "After I told you not to." Charlie's words vibrate into him, cutting through him. "Don, I drove the whole way over there wondering if she'd gotten hurt, how badly. You can't imagine--"

That's unfair, that's an opening. "I can't, Charlie?" Don rocks back on his knees, meeting Charlie's dark gaze. "How do you think I felt when you got shot at? How do you think I feel having you involved in all the dangerous things I do?"

"Is that why?" Don was expecting that question, but not the tone of Charlie's voice. It isn't a shout, it isn't an accusation. Charlie just asks, his curiosity almost calm, as if this could ever be a real reason. "To show me what it feels like?"

"Oh, God." Don shakes his head wildly as he drops it again, as he sinks down. "Charlie, no, please." He pushes himself up Charlie's body as Charlie hooks his hands around Don's biceps and pulls. "No, I'd never--"

"Shh," Charlie whispers, his eyes huge, looking honestly sorry he asked. Feeling another rule shatter, Don kisses him too hard, clutches his shoulder and hangs on too long, and Charlie winds an arm around him and kisses him right back.

All Don wants is to stay wrapped up in Charlie, but that would be avoiding what he needs to tell him. "Charlie," he says over Charlie's mouth before he pushes himself back, out of range of kisses, and looks Charlie in the eye. "Charlie, we had no other choice. Amita was the one who pointed that out."

Charlie makes an annoyed muppet-face, and the ache in Don's chest starts to ease. "She would. She's way too brave."

"Yeah, like some other people I could mention." Charlie glares at Don, but his cheek is curving up. "And I swear to you, I didn't--"

Charlie shakes his head, reaching up to Don's face, fingers framing his jaw. "I know, I know. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Don mutters, turning his face to kiss the heel of Charlie's hand. Charlie tugs and Don folds down into his arms, head on his chest, his hand in Don's hair. "It's okay. You've got a point." Don's fist rests by Charlie's side, and he uncurls it to flatten it against Charlie's ribs, gentle ridges covered with firm muscle and soft skin. "I wouldn't ever..." Don wants to say he wouldn't ever hurt Charlie, but if that were true Charlie wouldn't be consulting for the FBI on case after awful case; he wouldn't have to worry about his smart and pretty sweetheart, they'd be together somewhere else, safe with their math. Even thinking that, Don tilts his head to kiss Charlie's skin, hair and warmth beneath his mouth; he shifts over, brushing another kiss over the crinkles of Charlie's nipple, and says low, "I wouldn't."

"I know," Charlie says again, though it isn't true, and Don feels more relieved than he deserves. Charlie drags his knee up Don's side, skin sliding across skin as he wraps his leg over Don's back, so warm, still hard. "Kiss me again?"

How can he just ask like that, half a minute after telling Don off? "God, Charlie," is all Don can say, whiplashed and dizzy. Obediently he kisses the dip between Charlie's collarbones, the tendon in his throat, and Charlie breathes encouraging noises, his fingers tight and strong on Don's upper arm and the back of his head. Charlie cranes his neck to meet Don, cupping his face in both hands as Don leans over him, and Don kisses him as gently as he knows how but can't help pressing him down into the bed.

Charlie's hands shift, pushing on Don's head, and Don doesn't push forward, he leans back and lets Charlie break the kiss. Their mouths part with a little wet sound, and Charlie holds Don in place, looking up at him with wide trusting eyes. "I don't know why I said that," Charlie tells him so earnestly it makes him ache. "I know you'd never hurt Amita, just like you'd never hurt me."

Don feels sick so sharply he winces, shutting his eyes on Charlie's smile. This is why he can't, or couldn't, or shouldn't, talk about their other-- their relationships in bed, this throb of guilt, and the aftershock of shame as it all fades so easily into the seething background of want. Charlie murmurs, "Don?", his fingers stroking Don's cheeks, and Don thinks for a moment of just kissing him again, of drowning himself in Charlie until he can forget about the world outside the two of them for at least a little while.

Instead he takes a breath and opens his eyes. Charlie's head is turned slightly, his smile lopsided and rueful like he knows what Don's thinking. It was probably all over his face. "Of course," and Charlie's voice is wistful and a little tired, not young at all, "that makes this kind of ironic." He looks down for a moment, his eyelashes veiling his eyes, and Don's chest seizes with apprehension until Charlie looks at him again, tilting his face up. "Can you have degrees of irony, do you think?"

Behind the random babble Charlie is smiling, still so earnest, and Don smiles back as he leans down, though it probably looks as shaky as it feels. Charlie wiggles beneath him, wrapping both legs around his waist, but he only kisses Don lightly before he breaks off to insist, "no, really, words are hard to quantify, but still, how would levels of irony be defined?"

"Charlie..." Don looks at him, his eyes clear and his grin a little too bright, and deliberately takes the deliberate bait. "I think," he says, brushing his lips across Charlie's temple as if he could talk straight into that giant brain, "it wouldn't work." Every few words he kisses Charlie's face again, forehead and cheek and chin, scattered stubble prickling his mouth as Charlie sighs, one hand slipping behind Don's neck. "Things just, they're ironic, or they aren't."

"I don't know," Charlie says breathlessly, his legs tightening around Don's waist as he moves, "if 'ironic' can't have levels, how come, ah." Don kisses Charlie beside his mouth and he turns his head into it, tracing Don's lip with his tongue, bracing his hand on Don's shoulder as he pushes into a better position. Their dicks meet, sliding against each other, and Don gasps over Charlie's lips, letting the idle conversation slip from his mind.

Charlie doesn't, though, pulling away from the kiss one more time. "How come," he says frustratingly, "it takes adverbs?"

"Charlie." Their noses touching, Don blinks open bleary eyes to glare. Charlie grins, sparks dancing in his eyes, and he rolls his hips up into Don's, and again, making Don growl. Wanting to hold Charlie down with all his strength, gripping the sheets either side of Charlie's face, Don rumbles, "Can you even spell 'ironic'?"

Charlie's mouth goes round, his eyes bright with laughter, and when he growls Don laughs over the shudder it sends through him, the tingles all over his skin. Charlie lunges up and kisses Don so hard his lips burn, letting go to push with both hands, and Don pushes with him, rolling them over. Charlie lands on Don's chest as he lands on his back, squashing the air out of him, and Charlie smiles and sighs over his mouth, giving Don his breath back, kissing him again. There's still something unsettled deep in Don's gut, but it's fading with each moment, every kiss.

Charlie pressing him down into the mattress, Charlie's tongue sliding into his mouth, Don closes his hands on Charlie's hips, halting when he feels the bone beneath the skin. He could haul Charlie bodily back into position, but he doesn't, letting Charlie shift himself, joints flexing under Don's hands. Charlie gets there soon enough, gasping when they line up again; Don tilts his head back, rocking his hips up, sucking on Charlie's tongue, flattened and mindless beneath Charlie.

At least Charlie is with him in the moment, not thinking about anything else either. He leans on Don, arching his spine just enough to get his hands wrapped around both their dicks, his thigh rippling tensely under Don's palm as he moves. Letting sensation push out thought, Don gasps a mouthful of air and just feels: Charlie's slender hips in his hands, their dicks slip-sliding together in Charlie's grip, Charlie surging rhythmically in his hold. Little flecks of lightning crackling all over his skin, Charlie drinking up his breath in kisses, Don gives himself over to Charlie thrusting against him, feels his balls tightening and his pulse speeding and everything rising--

--Charlie stops, peeling his fingers away, and Don can't think of anything but slamming him to the bed and finishing things. But he doesn't, he clenches his fists over the small of Charlie's back and doesn't grab as Charlie sits up, breathless and maddening. "Wait, wait," Charlie gasps. "Wait, I was thinking--"

"Don't you ever stop?" Don begs hoarsely, because he was so close, because Charlie is damp and hot under his hands, flushed and beautiful before his eyes, because Charlie always knows how to drive him fucking crazy.

Charlie shakes his head, smiling open-mouthed, curls swinging. "That wouldn't be any fun." He leans over towards Don's nightstand, rummaging in the second drawer, and Don rests his hands on Charlie's thighs, not letting them tighten as Charlie moves over him, watching the lamplight and shadows across his lean lithe body. He pulls out the lube and a condom, sitting back on Don's thighs, and Don's up for whatever Charlie wants. He just wants Charlie.

Charlie looks down at his hands, slicking the left thoroughly. Don blinks with hazy curiosity, because Charlie is right-handed; then Charlie shifts forward, knees pressed to Don's ribs. His right hand lands on Don's shoulder, the packet crinkling under his palm, and with a little shiver and a hot wet noise he starts fingering himself with his left, biting his lip, curls swinging as he moves. "I think," Charlie mutters, his eyes half-closed, but that's all he says. Don watches him for an eternal moment, lit against the dimness above them, thrusting into empty air; he wants to feel Charlie moving more than he wants to breathe, and his hand curls the way it could around Charlie's bobbing dick, but it would be a hell of a shame to distract him.

Then Don remembers, this is Charlie, he can focus, and he reaches up to cup Charlie's head and pull him down. Charlie moans deep in his throat when Don strokes him, his mouth trembling on Don's as he thrusts into Don's fist, and Don can feel the back-and-forth motion of his body, the rolling tension in his shoulder, the ripples of effort down his thighs. He remembers Charlie tight and hot around his own fingers, his dick pulsing in eager sympathy, and twists his hand around Charlie's, sliding his thumb along the damp crease behind the head, feeling Charlie moan for him as much as he hears him. "Charlie," Don gasps when Charlie lets him up for air. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie."

"Don," Charlie whispers, leaning their foreheads together, pressing their shoulders together. "Come on, here." He shudders to a stop as he pulls his fingers out, breathing a heated whimper across Don's jaw, and after a moment he gently bats Don's hand away. Chest to chest, Charlie grabs another breath before rips open the packet, bracing on Don's shoulder to push himself up. "Just, the angle--" Eyes closed in concentration, he rolls the condom one-handed onto Don, slick fingers curving tight. "Come here." Don holds his breath as Charlie guides him, holding himself achingly still, staring up at Charlie arched over him.

Charlie pushes down onto him, breathing fast and loud, and Don's eyes press shut as he grits his teeth, heat streaming up his spine. He can't come yet, not at the first tight slide of Charlie around him, he can't squeeze as he catches Charlie's waist with both hands to help ease him down. Charlie grips Don's shoulders as he pushes back, sinking Don into his body, and it's unbearably good, heart-stoppingly good, but Charlie's next breath is a half-vocalized grunt, he suddenly twitches, and worry flashes through the haze of pleasure. Is he okay? Was he really ready?

Don's eyes snap open, and Charlie grins at him, exhilarated and glowing red, sweat glittering on his forehead. He rocks and squeezes, and the pulse of sensation ripples through Don, his fingers flexing on Charlie's skin as he groans helplessly. Charlie makes a breathless happy noise, leaning a little harder on Don as he rocks again, pushing him deeper; Don can feel himself hit Charlie's sweet spot, the answering throb making his hips snap up mindlessly for more. Charlie gasps, neck arching and curls bouncing, and mutters a dazed, "whoa".

Don can't help but reflect Charlie's grin as he slides his hands down Charlie's damp-sleeked hips; he makes some noise vaguely like a whinny, and Charlie feels wickedly good vibrating with laughter around him. "G'yup." Don pushes, just a little, and Charlie laughs harder, his eyelashes trembling on his cheeks and his kiss-bruised lips parting. He tightens his hands on Don's shoulders, a wave going up his back as he bounces into a rhythm, driving gasps out of them both. "Yeah," Don breathes as Charlie fucks himself on him, watching Charlie swaying over him, clutching Charlie's revolving hips, not sparing any thought to worry about what stupid encouragements he might be babbling.

At least not until Charlie's eyes fly open, round and blown, and Don realizes he's whispering, "mine, my Charlie, mine." Even when he hears himself he can't stop: it's all there in Charlie's every thrust, the slap and slide of their bodies, the way Charlie's face melts into a soft smile even though he's breathless. Charlie leans forward, still moving, bracing one hand against the bed, pushing the other up Don's throat, and Don shakes under Charlie's hand sliding across his pulse, turns his head into Charlie's touch and kisses his thumb as it strokes over his mouth.

"Don," Charlie breathes, and he doesn't even have to say mine. "Don, touch me." Don obeys with a harder stroke than he'd meant to, and Charlie groans, tensing around him, dropping his head so his curls flick Don's face like glancing fingertips. "Oh, fuck, Don." Charlie's forehead falls to Don's chest, his fingers pressed to the side of Don's face, and Don plants his feet and thrusts to meet Charlie, strokes him faster and holds him in the rhythm as he starts to lose it. Jerking wildly in Don's grip, Charlie drops to one elbow and moans, his voice breaking as he comes around and pretty much all over Don.

It hits Don almost, almost hard enough, reverberating from Charlie into him. His hands reflexively tighten with every tremor through Charlie's body, Charlie's gasps over his skin; before he can even think of easing up, Charlie looks up at him, heavy-lidded and grinning as he pushes against Don, catching the rhythm again. Don tries to uncurl his fingers but he can't let go, Charlie's dick still heavy in his hand, Charlie's hips moving relentlessly. Charlie just pushes into his grip, shoving back down onto him, his eyes squeezing shut as one more aftershock jolts through them both and Don shudders down to his bones. "Charlie," Don hears himself, his voice fragmented and grinding. "Oh, God, fuck me, Charlie." Dots of light arcing across his vision, Don comes apart into a million pieces, only Charlie holding him together.

Charlie collapses on Don with the air of a job well done, squirming to tuck his head under Don's chin, and Don lies under Charlie's weight, dizzy and breathless, unable to fully expand his ribcage and completely unable to care. His hand slides limply down Charlie's leg, landing beside his foot, and after a few gulps of air he drapes it across Charlie's ankle, pressing his fingertips to the pulse-point there. Charlie keeps his hand on Don's face, his fingers moving a little at the corner of his eye, a tiny stroke back and forth; eventually Don brushes his fingers lightly across Charlie's hand, not so much pressure he'd think he should stop, and up Charlie's arm, over his sharp-edged shoulderblade and the nape of his neck, finally slipping into damp coiling curls.

Don lies on his rumpled sheets, warmly sticky with come and sweat and Charlie, handprints throbbing gently on his shoulders and their heartbeats gradually slowing in sync. Right around now he always remembers the way Charlie slept on him when they were kids, lying on his chest and wrapped around him no matter how hot it was. The memory comes to him whether he calls it up or pushes it away, and this time he just lets it drift into his head, the way he's drifting now, anchored only by Charlie. They should probably get up and clean up, but it's not that late, they have time.

Somewhen later, Charlie yawns and shifts, letting go of Don's face, and Don pulls his hand out of Charlie's hair so he can raise his head. Charlie gives Don a sleepy smile and rolls off him, landing with a little whumph. After a moment he reaches down to palm the condom, a quick swipe of warm skin. "Oohg," Charlie says, making ridiculous noises as he stretches, and Don chuckles wearily. "Mmm, I'll feel that tomorrow."

He sounds fine, lazily happy, but Don glances at him anyway. "Charlie...?"

Sitting up, Charlie waves him off. "In the good way," he says, cheerfully exasperated. "Come shower with me?" Don narrows his eyes, and Charlie just grins back, tilting his head so he's looking at Don through his hair. "You could check me out," he says, voice pitched low, "make sure I'm okay."

Instead of throwing himself eagerly after that temptation, Don throws his arm over his eyes. It's not that early, either. "Are you trying to kill me? Some of us have to work in the morning."

"Guess I'll have to scrub my own back." The bed shifts and Charlie's footsteps pad away, but Don doesn't feel so sleepy anymore, a prickling beneath his skin. Listening to his shower run and Charlie humming jauntily, he tries to think of a gentle way to convince Charlie to go home. He'll sleep better there than with Don, who is picturing Charlie turning under the showerhead, the water streaming down the lines of his body, and sternly reminding himself of how late it really is.

The shower shuts off, replaced by little shuffles of movement and soft rustles of cloth. Don stares up at the dark ceiling, hoping in both directions at once, and is both relieved and disappointed when Charlie comes back mostly dressed. Sometimes, even Charlie pays attention to the rules.

Charlie walks into the circle of lamplight, shrugging on his button-down over his tee, his jeans dragging around his ankles. Don heroically resists the urge to comment on the over-long jeans, rolling to his side as Charlie sits on the bed. "So, um," Charlie says, looking down and crumpling up a fistful of sheet. "I never told you my news."

"You've got something going on even more important than an online game?" Don doesn't quite trust himself to let go if he reaches up to ruffle Charlie's hair, so he turns his hand over in offering, flattening it knuckles-down on the bed.

Charlie smiles, laying his hand on Don's for just a moment. "I guess Dad can keep a secret every once in awhile. He must've wanted me to tell you myself. I..." His eyes flick down once, but track right back up, and Don tries his best not to worry. "I asked Amita to move in with me."

That's a whole new level, to everything. "Oh." Don's inflection isn't neutral, he can see it in Charlie's little wince, his clear struggle to keep his eyes up. Don swallows hard and gets himself under enough control that, "What's her answer?" is as even as it should be.

"She's thinking about it." Charlie's smiling, anyway.

"Well, good, that's good." Don looks up at the ceiling again, the same empty shadows, searching for a moment and an insight, a way to ask without asking.

Charlie is, like always, way ahead of him. "This doesn't--" His wave takes in the bed, Don, the little world of the two of them. "Nothing has to change."

Don's first thought is a burst of profanity, but his sigh of "Charlie," has no heat to it. I should be angrier, he thinks, looking up into Charlie's dark guileless eyes. I should be angry at all. Clinging to his own fistful of sheet, he eventually chokes out, "Buddy, I'm not sure that adds up."

The glare he gets for that metaphor is almost enough to make Don laugh, even now; then Charlie sighs, shoulders slumping a little. "Yeah, maybe. But it doesn't have to add up." He looks unbearably hopeful, eyebrows up, eyes innocently wide. "There are lots of other operations we could perform. Multiplication, exponents..?"

Don doesn't laugh or snarl. He rubs his hand over his face, so he doesn't have to look at Charlie, so he won't hit him or pull him down for a kiss. "Charlie. You've got something good here. She's great for you. Just..." Don doesn't want to be the reason it ends. "Don't risk that, okay? Be careful."

"We'll be careful." Charlie pulls Don's hand away from his face and presses it back down to the bed, palm to palm. "We are," he insists forcefully, and Don can feel the reply he should make hovering over them, the statement Charlie is preemptively defying. He's said it before, more than once. He even meant it, the first couple of times.

He's not going to say it now. He can't even make himself want to, can't even pretend he's not on the same side of this as Charlie. Don smiles in surrender and interweaves their fingers, shaking his head just enough until Charlie visibly relaxes. "Okay, Chuck, okay. It's getting kind of late, huh?"

"Places to go, people to teach." Charlie nods too, but his fingers tighten.

"Or catch," Don mutters, thinking without eagerness of what tomorrow might bring, the disasters he might have to deal with, the crimes he might have to solve.

"Or save." Charlie gets up, patting Don's arm as he pulls away. Then his breath hitches, and that's how Don realizes he's reached out, almost before he feels Charlie's wrist turning in his grasp. Charlie just looks at him for a long moment, his eyes bottomless in shadow, their glints distant as stars; then he leans down, smiling like he knows everything there is to know, and Don relaxes into the gentle press of Charlie's mouth on his, breathes deeply through his nose -- Charlie's wet hair, Charlie's warm skin -- and lets Charlie go.