![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spikedluv posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
numb3rsflashficTitle: Who Says You Can’t Go Home
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie implied, Alan
Rating/Category: PG/implied Slash
Word Count: 1341 words
Spoilers: Through end of season 2, generally.
Summary: Don goes home after a bad case.
Notes/Warning: ‘Who Says You Can’t Go Home’ was written by Jon BonJovi and Richie Sambora and performed by BonJovi.
Written: June 22, 2006
Don stepped inside the house, pushed the solid wood door closed behind him. Even before he heard the snick that shut the world outside, he felt the welcoming cocoon of home envelop him. Though he knew this house had been the site of many a disagreement, between him and his parents over curfew and homework, between him and Charlie over anything while they were growing up, it radiated peace and he could feel the tension drain from his body.
He heard the familiar sound of the television turned down low so Charlie, who was sprawled on the couch, could read whatever journal article had caught his interest this week; his stomach growled at the mouth watering scent emanating from the kitchen, reminding him that he hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
“Hey,” Charlie said as he sat up, keeping his place with one finger between the pages.
“Hey.” Don shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up beside the door.
Charlie closed the journal and set it on the coffee table. “You made it in time for the game.”
He sounded like he wanted to say more, but circumstances in the form of their father in the kitchen, prevented it
“Yeah, good.” Don began the process of rolling his sleeves up, a move that made him more comfortable and also bought him time. “Who’s playing tonight, again?”
Don knew that Charlie had already told him, but his mind had been running in a dozen different directions trying to solve this last case and he hadn’t really been paying attention. Even though he had to be fully aware of this, Charlie’s voice, when he answered, didn’t hold a hint of impatience.
“Dodgers and Mariners. Interleague play.”
Don could feel Charlie’s eyes boring into him. He ran his hand over his head and sat down on the couch beside Charlie, sinking into the cushions and barely resisting the urge to lay his head back and close his eyes.
“It’s over?”
Don brought his hand down and looked over at Charlie through tired eyes. “Yeah, Charlie, it’s over. For us it’s over, for the victims....”
“It may never be over.”
“Yeah.”
“Donny! You’re here.”
Don looked at his father and worked up a smile, though he wasn’t sure how well he managed it. “Of course I am, Charlie told me you were making nachos tonight.”
Alan snorted. “You’d have shown up no matter what I was making, as long as there was beer. Speaking of which.” He turned an expectant eye on Charlie.
“What, Father?”
“Go get the beer, Son.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?” Charlie asked, but got up off the couch anyway, though not without letting the back of his fingers brush Don’s leg.
With an exasperated sigh, Alan held the plate of nachos up and said, “Because I’ve only got two hands.”
“Well, yeah,” Charlie said, winking at Don before he turned away and walked to the kitchen, “but don’t we have one of those insulated bags?” His spoke louder so they could still hear him when he pushed through the swinging door. “You could have put a whole six pack in there with a little ice and thrown it over your shoulder.”
Alan didn’t even deign to reply. He set the plate of nachos and pile of napkins he’d brought on the coffee table and sat down on the other side of Don. He reached out and squeezed Don’s leg. “Everything all right?”
Don wasn’t sure how to answer that without lying. “It will be.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will, Dad,” Don said, and wondered if he was fooling either of them.
“Besides nachos and beer, I mean.”
Don smiled at his father’s attempt to lighten the somber mood Don had brought with him. “Well, I could really use that beer.”
“What’s the magic word?” Charlie asked as he bounced out of the kitchen with three beers in hand.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Chuck,” Don said, grinning at Charlie’s glare.
“That is definitely not the magic word.”
“Hand over the beer, or there’ll be no nachos for you, my boy,” Alan said.
“That works.” Charlie handed over one of the beers, then sat down and turned his anticipatory expression on Don.
“I’m not saying please,” Don said, continuing the game, hoping that if they played at being lighthearted, he’d eventually feel that way.
“That wouldn’t be good enough,” Charlie said, taking a sip out of one of the bottles. “Mmm, that tastes good,” he teased. “For you, it’s ‘pretty please’.”
“Because you’re the prettiest boy in the room? Hey, I’ll wrestle you for it,” Don said, enjoying the light flush that covered Charlie’s skin at the suggestion.
“How about we flip for it?”
“How about you give him the beer and turn up the volume so we can hear the game?”
“Because that would be no fun.”
“Neither would mowing your own lawn for a month,” Alan threatened.
Charlie practically shoved the bottle at Don. “Here, have a beer.”
“Gee, thanks, buddy.”
Charlie shot him a glower and then muttered something under his breath about being reprimanded in his own home as he looked over the coffee table. “Where’s the remote?”
“Who turned on the television?” Alan asked around a mouthful of nachos.
“What, uh, what does one have to do with the other?” Charlie asked.
“It would seem to me that he who turns on the television would know where the remote was.”
“You’d think so, right?” Charlie lifted up and felt around the couch cushion under himself, then down along the side.
“These nachos are good, Dad,” Don said as he licked his fingers. “Might even be the best nachos you’ve ever made. Too bad Chuck’s missin’ ‘em.”
“Funny,” Charlie said, pressing the volume button on the remote he’d finally found beneath Don’s butt.
Charlie set the remote down on the coffee table and remained leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. The beer bottle swung from one hand while the other reached for the plate of nachos.
Don snagged one more nacho and stuffed it into his mouth without spilling anything, then grabbed a napkin off the pile. He leaned back into the couch and took a sip of beer, wiped his fingers on the napkin while he watched his father and brother as they shared the nachos and watched the game. As hungry as he was, Don was even more tired. He dropped his head back, let his eyes slide shut, and just listened to the game and to the sometimes mocking commentary his father and brother threw in there.
He remembered his first night at Quantico. No matter how determined he’d been to succeed, he’d been scared and alone. The long days and lonely nights during Fugitive Recovery, when he’d sometimes gone weeks without speaking to his parents. The years in Albuquerque when he’d been in charge and there was no one to blame but him when things went wrong.
Don sometimes wondered how he’d managed to spend so much time away from his family and the support they offered, so many years not speaking to Charlie.
He felt the cushions shift, their shoulders brush, as Charlie leaned back next to him. Don rolled his head along the back of the couch and opened his eyes, not surprised to find Charlie looking at him, big brown eyes that sometimes glittered with excitement or glazed over with passion were filled with equal parts love and worry.
Don knew that Charlie would do anything to help him through this rough patch, just as their dad had offered to do. Somehow, that help had gotten easier to accept now that he was older and Charlie wasn’t the annoying little brother who got all the attention and made Don’s life at school hell.
A little bit of the darkness lifted, and Don smiled at Charlie. He watched the answering smile grow and fill Charlie’s face, pushing away the worry. Not for the first time, Don realized how good it was to be home.
The End
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie implied, Alan
Rating/Category: PG/implied Slash
Word Count: 1341 words
Spoilers: Through end of season 2, generally.
Summary: Don goes home after a bad case.
Notes/Warning: ‘Who Says You Can’t Go Home’ was written by Jon BonJovi and Richie Sambora and performed by BonJovi.
Written: June 22, 2006
Don stepped inside the house, pushed the solid wood door closed behind him. Even before he heard the snick that shut the world outside, he felt the welcoming cocoon of home envelop him. Though he knew this house had been the site of many a disagreement, between him and his parents over curfew and homework, between him and Charlie over anything while they were growing up, it radiated peace and he could feel the tension drain from his body.
He heard the familiar sound of the television turned down low so Charlie, who was sprawled on the couch, could read whatever journal article had caught his interest this week; his stomach growled at the mouth watering scent emanating from the kitchen, reminding him that he hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
“Hey,” Charlie said as he sat up, keeping his place with one finger between the pages.
“Hey.” Don shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up beside the door.
Charlie closed the journal and set it on the coffee table. “You made it in time for the game.”
He sounded like he wanted to say more, but circumstances in the form of their father in the kitchen, prevented it
“Yeah, good.” Don began the process of rolling his sleeves up, a move that made him more comfortable and also bought him time. “Who’s playing tonight, again?”
Don knew that Charlie had already told him, but his mind had been running in a dozen different directions trying to solve this last case and he hadn’t really been paying attention. Even though he had to be fully aware of this, Charlie’s voice, when he answered, didn’t hold a hint of impatience.
“Dodgers and Mariners. Interleague play.”
Don could feel Charlie’s eyes boring into him. He ran his hand over his head and sat down on the couch beside Charlie, sinking into the cushions and barely resisting the urge to lay his head back and close his eyes.
“It’s over?”
Don brought his hand down and looked over at Charlie through tired eyes. “Yeah, Charlie, it’s over. For us it’s over, for the victims....”
“It may never be over.”
“Yeah.”
“Donny! You’re here.”
Don looked at his father and worked up a smile, though he wasn’t sure how well he managed it. “Of course I am, Charlie told me you were making nachos tonight.”
Alan snorted. “You’d have shown up no matter what I was making, as long as there was beer. Speaking of which.” He turned an expectant eye on Charlie.
“What, Father?”
“Go get the beer, Son.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?” Charlie asked, but got up off the couch anyway, though not without letting the back of his fingers brush Don’s leg.
With an exasperated sigh, Alan held the plate of nachos up and said, “Because I’ve only got two hands.”
“Well, yeah,” Charlie said, winking at Don before he turned away and walked to the kitchen, “but don’t we have one of those insulated bags?” His spoke louder so they could still hear him when he pushed through the swinging door. “You could have put a whole six pack in there with a little ice and thrown it over your shoulder.”
Alan didn’t even deign to reply. He set the plate of nachos and pile of napkins he’d brought on the coffee table and sat down on the other side of Don. He reached out and squeezed Don’s leg. “Everything all right?”
Don wasn’t sure how to answer that without lying. “It will be.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will, Dad,” Don said, and wondered if he was fooling either of them.
“Besides nachos and beer, I mean.”
Don smiled at his father’s attempt to lighten the somber mood Don had brought with him. “Well, I could really use that beer.”
“What’s the magic word?” Charlie asked as he bounced out of the kitchen with three beers in hand.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Chuck,” Don said, grinning at Charlie’s glare.
“That is definitely not the magic word.”
“Hand over the beer, or there’ll be no nachos for you, my boy,” Alan said.
“That works.” Charlie handed over one of the beers, then sat down and turned his anticipatory expression on Don.
“I’m not saying please,” Don said, continuing the game, hoping that if they played at being lighthearted, he’d eventually feel that way.
“That wouldn’t be good enough,” Charlie said, taking a sip out of one of the bottles. “Mmm, that tastes good,” he teased. “For you, it’s ‘pretty please’.”
“Because you’re the prettiest boy in the room? Hey, I’ll wrestle you for it,” Don said, enjoying the light flush that covered Charlie’s skin at the suggestion.
“How about we flip for it?”
“How about you give him the beer and turn up the volume so we can hear the game?”
“Because that would be no fun.”
“Neither would mowing your own lawn for a month,” Alan threatened.
Charlie practically shoved the bottle at Don. “Here, have a beer.”
“Gee, thanks, buddy.”
Charlie shot him a glower and then muttered something under his breath about being reprimanded in his own home as he looked over the coffee table. “Where’s the remote?”
“Who turned on the television?” Alan asked around a mouthful of nachos.
“What, uh, what does one have to do with the other?” Charlie asked.
“It would seem to me that he who turns on the television would know where the remote was.”
“You’d think so, right?” Charlie lifted up and felt around the couch cushion under himself, then down along the side.
“These nachos are good, Dad,” Don said as he licked his fingers. “Might even be the best nachos you’ve ever made. Too bad Chuck’s missin’ ‘em.”
“Funny,” Charlie said, pressing the volume button on the remote he’d finally found beneath Don’s butt.
Charlie set the remote down on the coffee table and remained leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. The beer bottle swung from one hand while the other reached for the plate of nachos.
Don snagged one more nacho and stuffed it into his mouth without spilling anything, then grabbed a napkin off the pile. He leaned back into the couch and took a sip of beer, wiped his fingers on the napkin while he watched his father and brother as they shared the nachos and watched the game. As hungry as he was, Don was even more tired. He dropped his head back, let his eyes slide shut, and just listened to the game and to the sometimes mocking commentary his father and brother threw in there.
He remembered his first night at Quantico. No matter how determined he’d been to succeed, he’d been scared and alone. The long days and lonely nights during Fugitive Recovery, when he’d sometimes gone weeks without speaking to his parents. The years in Albuquerque when he’d been in charge and there was no one to blame but him when things went wrong.
Don sometimes wondered how he’d managed to spend so much time away from his family and the support they offered, so many years not speaking to Charlie.
He felt the cushions shift, their shoulders brush, as Charlie leaned back next to him. Don rolled his head along the back of the couch and opened his eyes, not surprised to find Charlie looking at him, big brown eyes that sometimes glittered with excitement or glazed over with passion were filled with equal parts love and worry.
Don knew that Charlie would do anything to help him through this rough patch, just as their dad had offered to do. Somehow, that help had gotten easier to accept now that he was older and Charlie wasn’t the annoying little brother who got all the attention and made Don’s life at school hell.
A little bit of the darkness lifted, and Don smiled at Charlie. He watched the answering smile grow and fill Charlie’s face, pushing away the worry. Not for the first time, Don realized how good it was to be home.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 02:29 pm (UTC)And also ♥! This is like one of those perfect end-of-episode tags, plus a little extra going on between the boys. Yay!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 05:08 pm (UTC)“Don’t make me hurt you, Chuck,” indeed. LOL.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 11:44 pm (UTC)(Did you notice that I used Audra's BonJovi song? It was a complete coincidence, I swear. I actually chose this challenge in hopes that I wouldn't get an idea, since I was gonna be so busy. Well, I guess we can see how well that worked. *g*)
no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 11:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 03:35 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 02:59 pm (UTC)