audrarose

This is my contribution to the numb3rsficathon. Master list is here.

Title: G is for Gamble
Author: Audra Rose
Fandom/Pairing: Numb3rs, Don/Charlie/Ian
Warnings: threesome, incest
Summary: Ian wants Don. Don wants Charlie. Charlie’s clueless. All of them need therapy.

Notes: I looked at the prompt as a personal challenge and took a chance on writing something very different than my usual marshmallow-fluff. Oh, God. *facehands*

(kisses to sori and mel for beta help. *loves*)







Don had looked tired.

That’s what Charlie can’t get out of his head. Bone-deep, tired on the inside, the way Don gets sometimes when he’s been working a case too long, giving it everything he has but it still isn’t enough to keep things from getting messy and awful. This time it’s as bad as Charlie’s ever seen, like Don thinks it’s his fault he can’t fix things right away.

He’d watched Don walk out of the office with his head down and his face grim and just knew Don was thinking too much -- and not in the good way that made the answers come but in the dangerous way that left him stranded, looking back at all of them from too far away.

So it won’t hurt to stop and check. Just make sure Don’s okay and not drinking too much, not staying up to watch old movies with the sound turned off when he should be in bed.

He uses his key because if Don is actually sleeping he doesn’t want to wake him, and for a minute, standing there in the darkened apartment, he thinks that maybe Don went to bed after all, so tired he left his jacket on the chair and his shoes in the middle of the living room floor.

Not shoes. Boots.

Only Don doesn’t have boots like this, dark shine of some reptile skin with scuffed heels and worn soles – Charlie’s seen them before and not on his brother. Two jackets, now that’s he noticing, and a shirt crumpled next to the couch, a belt dropped next to it and there, Don’s shoes in the hallway, just outside his bedroom door.

Poking out from beneath Ian’s black cashmere turtleneck.

Ian and Don, Charlie thinks, trying to feel something other than the dull ache that’s settled into the pit of his stomach. Ian and Don.

Charlie takes a steadying breath and realizes it’s way too quiet, no noise from the bedroom when they can’t have been here very long. It occurs to Charlie that there’s no way they didn’t hear the door open, and walking unannounced into an apartment with two trained tactical experts waiting in the dark is a really good way to get shot.

“Don?” He says, and his voice only sounds a little weird. “It’s me. Uh, Charlie. I just – I wanted to talk to you, but it can wait.”

Movement in the bedroom, now, murmurs he can’t make out, shifting noises of springs and fabric. He listens for an answer, hears only his brother’s voice, low and urgent-sounding, and another, not quite as deep but louder, insistent.

“Come on, call him in.”

“Ian, don’t –.” Don’s voice, edgy and tense, and that should be Charlie’s cue to go, even if he can hear Ian saying Charlie’s name, now -- louder, sing-song-y, like he’s teasing. That’s weird shit, there, and he doesn’t know what game Ian’s playing but he should really get out of here before it gets weirder.

But Don had been so tired.

Charlie pauses at the door. Tired to death, and silly games, stupid games, are nothing like what Don needs after being awake for 36 hours straight, not when he probably still sees the blood when he closes his eyes.

If he leaves now, Don’s going to wonder all night if Charlie’s freaked out, and yeah, he is, kind of, but maybe he should just go in there and make sure Don’s okay. He could make sure Don knows he doesn’t need to worry and maybe tell Edgerton to lay off while he’s at it.

He makes his way through the living room, careful not to step on more clothes he didn’t notice right away, and yes, he can do this. The door isn’t closed all the way but it might as well be pad-locked the way Charlie feels. He stops with his hand on the knob. “Hey, Don – you okay?” He calls through the door.

“Yeah, he’s great, Charlie,” Ian says, like he’s going to laugh, “but he really needs you to come in here.”

“Shut up, Ian,” Don says urgently, and Charlie can hear more movement, faster now, like there’s a struggle going on.

“He really wants you to come in here to check on him. Wants it bad --.” More teasing laughter from Ian, but Don’s answering voice isn’t amused at all; it’s just muffled swearing, like Ian’s shoved a pillow over his face. Don sounds really angry, too. Almost frantic.

Well, that’s it. Charlie steps through the door, already talking.

“Ian, you’ve got a really fucked up sense of humor, you know that?”

He doesn’t get any farther, because Ian’s springing off the bed, a tight, athletic move that brings him to a stop right in front of Charlie. With a hard swallow Charlie notes that Ian’s wearing nothing but unbuttoned jeans and the light from the window, bright halogen from the streetlights picking out the lines of the muscles in his arms. He’s standing way too close, really close, enough that the air between them feels warm in the cool of the room.

“Yeah, I know,” Ian says, smirking like that’s a joke, too. “I’m a jerk. When I’m joking. Have you figured out if I’m joking, yet?”

“God, Ian, you’re such a dick,” Don says, breathing it out like he’s too tired to argue, and Charlie can hear him shift uncomfortably on the bed.

On the bed.

Don’s in bed, and Charlie has to look away from Ian’s too focused stare, look over at Don just for a second. Oh, God, bad idea, because Don isn’t wearing anything at all, just sitting in the shadows with his back against the wall and the sheet pooled in his lap, the long line of his body bare from one hard shoulder to ankle. He’s got one knee pulled up, elbow leaning on it and rubbing his face with one hand; he doesn’t see Charlie staring, letting his gaze slide down that long slice of flesh and Charlie really needs to look away right now before…

Ian reaches up to touch Charlie’s face, fingers cool and surprisingly gentle on his jaw, turning him back so they’re looking at each other again.

“Pay attention,” Ian says, in a soft, intimate voice that makes Charlie’s breath catch. “You need to figure this out.”

Charlie might be starting to panic a little. This is too weird, too confusing, and there’s way too much sex in this room. He doesn’t belong here with these two, who just a few seconds ago were undressing each other, touching each other, with want so thick in the air he’s breathing it in now, too. It’s making his chest tight, going straight to his heart, making it pound so hard he can feel it in his throat. It’s going straight to his cock.

“Just leave him alone,” Don says, scratchy voice that sounds like he had to swallow first to talk.

“You don’t want me to leave him alone,” Ian says, never once looking away from Charlie, fingers stroking over the lines of his face. “Not that I don’t understand the fascination,” he adds softly, with a smile that makes Charlie think of Ian’s snake-skin boots in the middle of the floor.

“Fuck you, Ian,” Don says. “Stop screwing around with him –.”

It’s like Ian doesn’t even hear him, just leans in, kisses Charlie hard, arms sliding around Charlie’s waist and pulling him in so they’re chest to chest, heat and skin and everything Charlie half-imagined it would be. And God, Charlie wishes that weren’t true, because it’s never been clearer, despite furtive looks and innuendo and half-formed fantasies, that Ian’s not his, can’t be.

“I don’t – I don’t understand what’s happening here,” Charlie says, pulling away slightly, wondering how furious Don is now, when exactly he lost control.

“Come on, Charlie – you’re usually a little faster on the uptake, you know?” Soft, urgent kiss beneath his jaw, hands closing around his hips. “We want you,” smooth lick to his lips, “to stay with us.”

Charlie can’t even react when Ian kisses him again, feels his thoughts scatter away. It’s not that he’s never thought about three before, but it was always more about the sheer how of it; writhing bodies twined together who never looked like Ian and never, ever looked like Don.

Don.

Charlie tries to furtively look over at his brother, afraid of what he’ll see, but Ian isn’t letting him move, keeps him busy with searching kisses and exploring hands, whispers in his ear right before he swipes at it with his tongue, “He won’t mind.”

Somehow that’s hard for Charlie to believe, even as Ian’s pushing his jacket off his shoulders and lifting his shirt over his head so that cool air rushes over his chest, making his nipples feel tight even before Ian strokes his palms down Charlie’s body, like he’s trying to map him with his hands. Charlie reaches out, trying to steady himself and finds his hands all over Ian’s skin, hot and perfectly smooth, can’t help but touch.

“God, Charlie,” Ian says, doing some touching of his own, flicking open the buttons of his jeans and looking at Charlie like he’s candy, like something edible, and Don…

Charlie looks over and Don’s still as stone, not even breathing, it seems, eyes focused on Ian’s hands touching Charlie’s body. Don hasn’t spoken directly to him since he walked into the room, hasn’t looked at him at all, not really, and Charlie feels a little lost. He pulls out of Ian’s arms and half-turns toward the bed, feels Ian catch him around the waist, kiss the back of his neck, nuzzling up under his hair to find the spot that make Charlie shudder.

“Don?” he asks, and his voice sounds small, begging for reassurance, but he doesn’t get it. Don finally meets his eyes, resigned, hopeless.

“Stay.” Takes a breath. “If you want.”

Ian doesn’t even wait for an answer, just shoves Charlie’s jeans down his hips, pushing him down on the bed to pull them off with Charlie’s shoes and socks, all at the same time. Ian’s moving over him, dragging him up and reaching for Don and somehow they end up sprawled across the bed with Ian’s back against Charlie’s chest and Don held tight in Ian’s arms.

“See what I can give you?” Ian tells Don, triumph in his voice, right before he shoves his mouth over Don’s.

Oh, fuck.

That’s just – that might be the hottest thing Charlie’s ever seen. Charlie doesn’t know what the hell to do now, shaking with nerves and need, and trying not to hyperventilate at the sight of Ian kissing his brother deeply, hungrily, like he wants to eat Don alive. So he just leans in and kisses the back of Ian’s neck, runs his hands over Ian’s shoulders and waist, and watches Don kiss Ian back. Biting, licking, angry kisses and he can’t help it, it makes him touch Ian more frantically, makes him want Don –god, no, what is he thinking? Ian, it makes him want Ian to do that to him, too.

Charlie’s fingers keep brushing over Don’s skin. Doesn’t know how he can tell the difference when everything is dissolving into warmth and sweat and urgent movement but somehow everytime he touches Don he can feel it sizzle through his fingertips and straight down to his cock, has to pull his hand back like it’s going to burn him dry. Don isn’t being careful, though, doesn’t pull back; when Don touches him his hands linger, fingers drifting over Charlie’s skin and it shouldn’t but it feels amazing, even if Don probably thinks he’s touching Ian.

Then Don runs his hand carefully, deliberately down Charlie’s side, teasing stroke from ribs to hip and Charlie loses it, just groans, a soft, broken sound right into Ian’s ear. Don and Ian stop kissing and Ian’s moving, pushing his own jeans down and kicking them off. He snakes one arm around Don’s waist and reaches the other back to cup his hand over Charlie’s ass, rubbing his skin through the thin cotton of Charlie’s boxers. Squeezes and pulls Charlie’s hips up tight against the hard, bare curve of his ass, and Charlie gasps, can’t help but push against him.

Low laugh from Ian then, soft amused voice whispering, “No one’s forgetting you, little brother, believe me,” and Charlie bends to suck hard on Ian’s neck. Suddenly Don’s hand is plunging deep into Charlie’s hair, pulling his head up, and for a wild, confused minute Charlie wonders if he crossed some line, thinks that maybe Don is willing to share almost everything with him, like he always has, ice cream and allowance, home, friends, job, but when it comes right down to it, maybe not this man.

Except Don’s hand is just threading into his hair, drifting down to cup his jaw. Don’s letting Ian kiss him again, languid and thorough, but his thumb is on Charlie’s mouth, gently tracing his lips over and over like he’s learning their shape. And oh, Christ, Charlie’s had orgasms that weren’t as intense as this. Don’s touch is the only thing Charlie can focus on, not Ian’s body hard against him, not Ian’s hand still curved around his ass, just Don’s touch on his lips and he has to drop his head back and just feel it. Opens his mouth to let Don run the pad of his thumb over the edge of his teeth, reach in deeper so Charlie can lick, once.

Don moans, then, first sound he’s made, coming from deep down, like it hurts, like Charlie bit him or something, and all at once Ian’s turning, pushing Don’s hand away to kiss Charlie roughly. The change is almost dizzying, from Don’s hand to Ian’s mouth, pushing his lips apart, making him open up so they can kiss messy and raw and urgent.

“You like this?’ Ian asks between kisses, grabbing Charlie’s ass in both hands and shoving their hips together, rubbing his cock hard over Charlie’s, the thin material of Charlie’s boxers getting wet from both of them. Rough friction just this side of pain makes Charlie whimper a little, makes his voice sound shaky when he whispers, “Yes.”

Then Charlie feels the bed tilt, Don surging up, rising over them with something like a growl and he’s engulfed, swallowed up in Don’s arms. Don’s a furnace, the heat of the sun behind him, smooth skin and hard muscle pressed to his back, strong thighs pushed up tight against the back of his legs, and the long, steel-hard length of Don’s cock burning though the cloth of his boxers, thrusting slightly.

And oh, God, Charlie’s drowning this time, aching with it, leaning back into Don’s arms like he belongs there. Maybe Don’s just going with it, doesn’t even realize that he’s kissing Charlie’s neck, mauling his jaw and biting at his earlobe, sucking it into his mouth and stroking it with his tongue, but it’s making Charlie feel dazed.

In fact, it’s going to spin him apart. It’s too much, all of it; too much sensation, front and back and all around him; Ian’s mouth on his face, dipping down to kiss his lips with bruising force, Don’s mouth on his neck, his cheek, meeting Ian’s every once in awhile to kiss roughly, and both of them running urgent, greedy hands over his shoulders, his arms, hips and legs, molding over his muscles like they’re learning Charlie in Braille.

“Oh, God, I need to touch you,” Don hisses next to his ear, “Please,” begging voice that turns Charlie’s brain to water but -- but Don’s already touching him, rubbing all over him, so Charlie thinks he must mean Ian. Ian thinks so, too, grabs Don’s hand from where it’s sliding over the waistband of Charlie’s boxers and shoves it down between their bodies. Twin moans in Charlie’s ears, Ian’s shaky and Don’s sounding a little frustrated, and Charlie’s starting to feel frantic. Don’s touching Ian, hand curled around Ian’s cock but his forearm’s pressed hard against Charlie’s groin, stroking slightly, maddeningly and Charlie can’t help moving, too, even if the sharp stab of jealousy is going to make him sick.

The thought strikes viper-fast, poisonous – Don should be touching him, not Ian, not ever Ian, but it just makes him feel hopeless and aching because this was never about him, it was about them, just the two of them, and he feels like he could drown in frustration and grief. If he stays here he’s going to say something, ask Don to touch him, beg for it, and he can’t bear the thought of that happening. He tries to get up, but Don tightens his arms.

“Wait, Charlie, what –?”

“Don, I can’t…”

“Don’t go,” whispered urgently, desperately, arms tight around him, and Don…

Oh, God, too much. Don’s ecstatic groan in his ear, Don’s arm beneath him flexing, pulling him close, Don’s other hand… Jesus, Don’s other hand running seeking fingers up Charlie’s cock, sliding over, stroking, holding him through his boxers. Charlie can’t breathe, can’t open his eyes, knows he should do something but has no idea what it might be other than maybe come all over his brother’s hand just from a touch…

“Off,” Ian says, reverting to single syllables, dragging at the waistband of Charlie’s boxers with nothing like gentleness, and then Don’s helping, pulling them down and off his legs but Charlie barely registers this because suddenly Ian’s hands grip him hard, stroking him roughly, delicious and painful and Charlie can’t help grasping Ian’s shoulders tight enough to bruise, crying out when Ian brings their cocks together, trying to hold them both in one big hand.

Everything’s skin and heat and hot kisses, Ian’s voice whispering to him, maybe both of them, things like gorgeous and so hot and god, Charlie, kiss me Don’s making noise, too, sounding almost angry, running possessive hands over Charlie’s ass, his thighs, digging his fingers deep into Charlie’s muscles and turning his bones to liquid.

“I want to fuck him first.”

Ian’s voice, guttural and hoarse, and Charlie freezes, feels Don stiffen behind him, too.

“No.” Don’s tone obliterates argument.

“D-Don?”

“No – Charlie, no. It’s okay.” One hand tangled tight in his hair, hard press of Don's mouth against his temple.

“No?” Ian asks, low and dangerous, sitting up to look at them, and Don sits, too, bringing Charlie with him like they’re joined already.

“You heard me. Enough, Ian.”

“Why? Because you fucking say so?” Charlie should probably say something, but some buried sense of self-preservation kicks in, makes him go still and silent before the violence and lust sparking fast between the other two, both of them so close that they could either come or kill each other. Charlie’s first instinct is to run, but Don’s holding him tight and Ian’s looming over them and he barely registers Ian telling Don to go to hell before Ian leans down and swallows him whole.

Blinding, perfect suction, blissful, wet heat and he arches into it, feels Don catch him close, pull him up so he’s practically in Don’s lap now, with Don moving against him in slick, frantic thrusts. No control here, just madness and motion and he’s not sure which is going to kill him, Ian’s mouth spasming around him or Don’s cock, stroking, sliding and hitting that spot right behind his balls that makes Charlie’s brain splinter. Then he hears Don’s broken groan in his ear, feels him splash hot and slick against his thighs, his ass, and he pitches forward over Ian, tries to warn him but Ian’s holding him down, swallowing, swallowing and Charlie’s coming harder than he ever has in his life.

Long seconds where he breathes and breathes, but then Ian’s moving, pushing him aside and shoving Don to his back. He covers Don’s body and rubs against him hard, pinning him down and pushing their mouths together.

“This what you wanted?” Ian asks, breathless and bitter, licking Don’s lips then plunging his tongue deep. “Taste good?”

“Fuck, Ian…” Don’s moving, too, either trying to match Ian’s frantic movements or shove him off but the motions are stuttering, ungraceful, and in just seconds Ian shudders against him and stills. Don goes still, too, stares at the ceiling for a long minute before reaching up to cup the back of Ian’s neck.

“So sorry,” Charlie hears Don whisper, watches Ian move his face against Don’s neck.

“Shut up, Eppes,” he says, all the anger gone, and Don just turns, pushes his face into Ian’s hair. And then Charlie has to turn away, roll over and close his eyes, because out of everything he’s seen tonight, this moment seems far too private to watch.

He has no idea how long he lies there after Don pulls the comforter up over his shoulders, just wraps himself up in a warm cocoon of blankets with only his hair sticking out and pretends to sleep. He hears them moving around, listens to the water running, sees lights go on in the living room, and fuck them if they want him to leave. He’s not going anywhere until he can stand up without staggering, walk out of here without the thought of what Don and Ian are going to do to each other later making him ill. Someone walks into the bedroom, and there are soft fingers in his hair, Don’s or Ian’s, he has no idea, but when the footsteps retreat into the hallway he sits up.

He can see Don’s shoes still sitting in the hallway, but no sign of Ian’s sweater, and now the sounds from the living room have taken on that waiting tone, like someone leaving. Ian’s leaving. He swallows a rush of relief and wonders idly if there’s some unwritten three-way etiquette that he knows nothing about, like maybe they’re both supposed to walk him to the door? And he can’t hide in Don’s bed forever, no matter how good that sounds. He better get up before Don kicks him out of it.

He finds flannel pajama bottoms in Don’s top dresser drawer, too big around his hips and flopping over his ankles but he wears them anyway, slips into the hall and leans against the doorway. His mouth feels swollen and his hair is drifting in a wild tangle around his face, and he wonders if he has kiss-marks all over his neck like Don does. He can see bruises, flushed against Don’s skin where he’s standing by the front door.

He’s got his back to Charlie, and Charlie can see that Don’s muscles are tense, bunched across his back and strung tight down his arms, facing Ian who’s dressed and about to open the door. They aren’t talking; Don just shakes his head and Ian reaches out, grips Don’s hair hard. He turns to go, but not before meeting Charlie’s eyes over Don’s shoulder. Charlie feels a shiver slither down his spine, and makes a note to never run into Ian alone in a dark alley.

And then he’s gone and it’s just Don with his hand on the door and his head hanging down, statue-still and completely silent.

“Don?” Charlie says, because the silence is going to break him and he needs to know what Don is thinking, how much Don hates him, now.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Don says, far too quietly, and when he turns Charlie’s heart stutters at the rage he sees on Don’s face, the way his gaze rakes over Charlie like the sight of him, disheveled and half-naked, makes him furious.

“Okay, Don? Let’s just remember that this wasn’t my idea,” Charlie tells him, edging back toward the bedroom, remembering in an irrational rush that Don knows things, dangerous things, has gone on training rotations for weeks learning God knows what, and now…

Don’s moving faster than Charlie can even think about, catching him around the waist when he trips on Don’s shoes and pushing him against the wall, shaking his head like he needs to clear it, their faces almost touching.

“I must be insane.”

“I’m s-sorry…”

“I let him touch you.”

Oh.

Don’s hands have come up around his face, cupping the back of his head.

“Let him put his hands on you. His mouth.”

Charlie feels his heart slow down, reaches up to hold Don, too.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, feeling a little at a loss.

“It’s not.” Don closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall beside Charlie. “He touched you and I let him because I didn’t think I’d ever get to otherwise, and now I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You know, it wasn’t that bad,” Charlie tells him, remembering a mind-blowing orgasm, but Don isn’t really listening to him.

“I fuck everything up,” Don says, and Charlie can barely hear him, shifts so he can see Don’s face. Exhaustion and self-loathing and all those deep dark things Don spends every day hiding. Charlie needs to do something right away because he knows that if he doesn’t, Don will never forgive either of them for this.

“Hey, Don?”

“God, Charlie, what?” Tired and irritated and every inch his big brother.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” Don’s head comes up at that, Charlie’s got all his attention, now.

“We never, you know, kissed. You and me. And I want to.”

For a long minute Don doesn’t move, and then his mouth twitches at one corner. Charlie can see he’s trying to control his face.

“We didn’t kiss.” Don’s hands are moving gently now, tracing over every place Ian’s fingers had been, making Charlie shiver.

“Not even once,” he tells Don, reaching up to touch Don back. “And I was waiting.”

“You were, huh?” He swallows, and Charlie can feel him shaking a little. Hopes it’s laughter. “Okay, then.”

“I can kiss you?”

“I said okay, didn’t I?” Don looks a little embarrassed. And maybe a little happier. “Go ahead, already.”

“Just making sure,” Charlie says softly, and leans in.

It’s awkward at first, strange until they find the right angle, but Charlie knows what he wants and waits until they find it, the place where it’s sweet and deep and perfect, and Don is holding him, tight, tight.

“Come on,” he whispers finally, when Don is leaning into him like Charlie’s the only thing keeping him standing. “Let’s go to bed. You need to get some sleep.”


End