audrarose

Title: Jealousy
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Charlie/Don
Rating: almost R
Spoilers: for All's Fair
Warnings: incest
Summary: Don needs proof.
Notes: A very short smutlet originally written for pro_f_iler. Cross posted to slash_100 for the "jealousy" prompt and numb3rs_slash.




The one time -- the only time -- that Don visits Charlie while he's living with Susan he leaves Kim sleeping and drives all night; his mother's words playing over and over in his head.

"Your brother's growing up, you know." Said proudly, like this was some big accomplishment on Charlie's part, but Don thinks he won't really believe it until he sees for himself.

When he gets there it's just a little past eight and Susan's already gone, but Charlie's up, answering the door in flannel pants and a t-shirt, his hair hanging in his face. He looks at Don like he thinks he might still be dreaming.

"I need coffee," Don tells him, pushing past into Charlie's -- their apartment -- and looks around the way he'd examine any crime scene. Charlie just shrugs, looks at a Don blankly for a second and then moves into the kitchen, finding coffee beans and cream by rote. Don follows Charlie and thinks maybe their mother might be onto something because Charlie moves differently; un-self-conscious, comfortable in his body in a way Charlie has never been.

Don doesn't see it until Charlie tips his head to measure water into the coffee pot; his hair falling away from the line of his jaw. A shadow-- ink, maybe? Feathering down over the curve of bone beneath his ear, right at the point of his jaw, and Don reaches out to wipe it away.

Then Don knows. He knows in the way that Charlie freezes beneath his touch, in the way Charlie's pulse beats hard and frantic beneath his fingertips.

"Charlie?" he whispers, pressing hard on that mark that he can't wipe away, and when Charlie doesn't answer he grabs Charlie around the waist with one arm and jerks him back against his chest, using his other hand to pull the collar of Charlie's t-shirt away from his neck and tearing the seam over his shoulder.

"Are there more?" Don asks, his words twisting between them while he runs his hand over Charlie's shoulders and lifts his hair; searching, searching, because when he bruises Charlie's skin it's always over his shoulder blades or at the nape of his neck where he smells like vanilla shampoo and tastes salt-sweet.

"I don't --" Charlie's voice is thready. "I don't need to explain myself to you." He's gasping a little and Don's vision goes red.

When he can see again he's tightened his arm around Charlie's waist, pushed Charlie's head forward and bitten down hard on the taut tendon of Charlie's neck. He hears Charlie cry out, feels him squirm, but Don just bites harder and pushes Charlie against the wall where Charlie has to think more about breathing than getting away.

He sucks at Charlie's skin until he hears Charlie moan; until Charlie pushes back against Don's hips, putting pressure just where Don wants it; until Don can taste copper against his tongue.

"Fine," Don hisses against the spreading bruise on Charlie's throat. "You can explain that to her."

End