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numb3rsflashficTitle: Overdue
Author: Mel (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
meletor_et_al)
Characters: Don, Charlie
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Length: 900+ words
Spoilers: up to and including Soft Target
Summary: And the thing is, they still don't get each other, really, but at least they get that much, the lack of getting, and it works. They work.
Warnings: angst, language, rampant metaphors
Notes: Attempting to innocently peruse the challenge list while half-watching Soft Target produced this;__dtrain helped me whip it into shape (and supplied the title). "Late submission" is an understatement, but then again, I only joined this community yesterday. And I only started writing Numb3rs fic the day before that.
OVERDUE
Don walks out of Charlie's office grinding his teeth and feeling sick to his stomach. He hates it when they argue -- it's like a carefully worded cross between shadow-boxing and a sword dance, and it never gets them anywhere. All it does is makes Don feel angry, and guilty, and angry with himself for feeling guilty, and all of that just starts feeling like barbed wire knotted up in his gut.
He stops at a water fountain and splashes his face. It's hardly Don's fault that Charlie had a bad time in high school. What was he supposed to do, coddle and idolize the kid like everybody else did? He might just as well have gone around with a formal petition asking kids to give him shit. Don's first undercover assignment was keeping himself off the radar screen, moving in popular jock circles, and pulling his brother out of as many lockers, toilet stalls, and campus hedgerows as he could. Which hadn't been nearly enough, something he knew even then, but he tries to convince himself there's no point in dwelling on that now. What's done is done, and Don had done what made sense to him at the time. If Charlie can't see that, and wants to whine and mope and guilt-trip, Don's not going to let that get to him. Except for when it does; when Charlie's soft, sad, dark eyes slice him right down the middle and open up years of buried memories. Unresolved issues. Unclosed cases.
It was easier when they got into fistfights, as kids, because then Don could sulk and poke at the bumps and scrapes, punch himself in the arm when the bruise there started healing too quickly. That pain was physical and external, and easy to deal with. Don can deal with problems that are on the outside. It's the stuff he has to keep inside himself that he can't figure out what to do with.
"High school sucked for me, Don."
High school sucks for everybody, Charlie.
***
Charlie writes on the glass panel with his favorite neon yellow paint-pen, his back to his audience, and Don hopes that he's really as oblivious as he seems to the tension that's filling the conference room like drying concrete. Hard, thick, and abrasive, it's not the kind you could cut with a knife; it's the kind you have to punch and kick your way through, and it'll leave your knuckles bloody and raw. Don knows this from experience.
When Houseman bitches at Charlie, he sounds just like a seventeen-year-old quarterback with a C average, and Don wants to knock him off the chair and break his nose, and lecture him. "Professor Charles Eppes, here, is one Hell of a mathematician, and a better man than you can even pretend to be, and if it came down to choosing one of the two of you for this case, I and everyone in this office would toss you out on your ass, just like we would have before now if we didn't have to include you. So I suggest you just shut up and listen to what he has to say." Okay, maybe 'lecture' isn't the right word. Don wonders for a split second, though, if doing that that might put him back in Charlie's good graces -- then he reminds himself it's crazy for him to be thinking that way in the first place.
"Well, how about both, Mr. Houseman." That's the equivalent of a backhand, a gentleman's punch to the face. It's not nearly enough, but it's almost okay, especially when Charlie looks at him.
Don wouldn't have caught the nameless something-like-relief that crosses his brother's eyes -- nowhere else on his face, just those God-damned tell-all eyes -- if he hadn't been looking for it, but he was.
He decides he'll apologize after work, and the barbed wire knot stuck at the bottom of his ribcage softens a little.
***
"Hey."
"Hey! Brother!"
"What's up?"
"Dad's lasagna; it's actually worth digesting. Why don't you grab a plate?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"You sure?"
They start out with humor, because that's safe. That's something they can both handle, even if it's a glaring cover-up, and anyway it's familiar and relaxing to badmouth Dad's cooking. The yearbook is less relaxing, less safe -- it's too close for comfort. As they talk about Val, and 'greater plans', and Woody Allen, Don can feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten, as though someone's holding a ratchet wrench to the base of his skull and twisting.
Then Charlie hits him with a zinger: "Oh, and yeah, you - you were hilarious, right?"
Even with the smile, Don can tell it's one of those darts that his brother's been subconsciously sharpening for years, and he can't come up with an answer that doesn't sound like an excuse. "I didn't laugh because I actually thought it was funny, you know; I laughed because if I didn't I was just some kid with a freak brother." Yeah. Charlie says that they totally didn't get each other, back then. Don thinks about lockers and toilet stalls and hedgerows, and Don thinks that his little brother just has no idea. Don thinks that if Charlie took all of his chalkboards, and all of his chalk, and all of the numbers in his head, he still wouldn't be able to quantify the degree to which he and Don totally didn't get each other. And the thing is, they still don't get each other, really, but at least they get that much, the lack of getting, and it works. They work.
When Don finally offers his big apology, it's kind of half-assed, and it's kind of a mess, and when he's done with it he feels about two inches tall.
Charlie says, "Thank you, you don't have to -- I was thirteen." Charlie smiles.
Charlie gets it. And right now, Don thinks that's enough.
Author: Mel (
meletor_et_al)Characters: Don, Charlie
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Length: 900+ words
Spoilers: up to and including Soft Target
Summary: And the thing is, they still don't get each other, really, but at least they get that much, the lack of getting, and it works. They work.
Warnings: angst, language, rampant metaphors
Notes: Attempting to innocently peruse the challenge list while half-watching Soft Target produced this;
__dtrain helped me whip it into shape (and supplied the title). "Late submission" is an understatement, but then again, I only joined this community yesterday. And I only started writing Numb3rs fic the day before that.OVERDUE
Don walks out of Charlie's office grinding his teeth and feeling sick to his stomach. He hates it when they argue -- it's like a carefully worded cross between shadow-boxing and a sword dance, and it never gets them anywhere. All it does is makes Don feel angry, and guilty, and angry with himself for feeling guilty, and all of that just starts feeling like barbed wire knotted up in his gut.
He stops at a water fountain and splashes his face. It's hardly Don's fault that Charlie had a bad time in high school. What was he supposed to do, coddle and idolize the kid like everybody else did? He might just as well have gone around with a formal petition asking kids to give him shit. Don's first undercover assignment was keeping himself off the radar screen, moving in popular jock circles, and pulling his brother out of as many lockers, toilet stalls, and campus hedgerows as he could. Which hadn't been nearly enough, something he knew even then, but he tries to convince himself there's no point in dwelling on that now. What's done is done, and Don had done what made sense to him at the time. If Charlie can't see that, and wants to whine and mope and guilt-trip, Don's not going to let that get to him. Except for when it does; when Charlie's soft, sad, dark eyes slice him right down the middle and open up years of buried memories. Unresolved issues. Unclosed cases.
It was easier when they got into fistfights, as kids, because then Don could sulk and poke at the bumps and scrapes, punch himself in the arm when the bruise there started healing too quickly. That pain was physical and external, and easy to deal with. Don can deal with problems that are on the outside. It's the stuff he has to keep inside himself that he can't figure out what to do with.
"High school sucked for me, Don."
High school sucks for everybody, Charlie.
***
Charlie writes on the glass panel with his favorite neon yellow paint-pen, his back to his audience, and Don hopes that he's really as oblivious as he seems to the tension that's filling the conference room like drying concrete. Hard, thick, and abrasive, it's not the kind you could cut with a knife; it's the kind you have to punch and kick your way through, and it'll leave your knuckles bloody and raw. Don knows this from experience.
When Houseman bitches at Charlie, he sounds just like a seventeen-year-old quarterback with a C average, and Don wants to knock him off the chair and break his nose, and lecture him. "Professor Charles Eppes, here, is one Hell of a mathematician, and a better man than you can even pretend to be, and if it came down to choosing one of the two of you for this case, I and everyone in this office would toss you out on your ass, just like we would have before now if we didn't have to include you. So I suggest you just shut up and listen to what he has to say." Okay, maybe 'lecture' isn't the right word. Don wonders for a split second, though, if doing that that might put him back in Charlie's good graces -- then he reminds himself it's crazy for him to be thinking that way in the first place.
"Well, how about both, Mr. Houseman." That's the equivalent of a backhand, a gentleman's punch to the face. It's not nearly enough, but it's almost okay, especially when Charlie looks at him.
Don wouldn't have caught the nameless something-like-relief that crosses his brother's eyes -- nowhere else on his face, just those God-damned tell-all eyes -- if he hadn't been looking for it, but he was.
He decides he'll apologize after work, and the barbed wire knot stuck at the bottom of his ribcage softens a little.
***
"Hey."
"Hey! Brother!"
"What's up?"
"Dad's lasagna; it's actually worth digesting. Why don't you grab a plate?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"You sure?"
They start out with humor, because that's safe. That's something they can both handle, even if it's a glaring cover-up, and anyway it's familiar and relaxing to badmouth Dad's cooking. The yearbook is less relaxing, less safe -- it's too close for comfort. As they talk about Val, and 'greater plans', and Woody Allen, Don can feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten, as though someone's holding a ratchet wrench to the base of his skull and twisting.
Then Charlie hits him with a zinger: "Oh, and yeah, you - you were hilarious, right?"
Even with the smile, Don can tell it's one of those darts that his brother's been subconsciously sharpening for years, and he can't come up with an answer that doesn't sound like an excuse. "I didn't laugh because I actually thought it was funny, you know; I laughed because if I didn't I was just some kid with a freak brother." Yeah. Charlie says that they totally didn't get each other, back then. Don thinks about lockers and toilet stalls and hedgerows, and Don thinks that his little brother just has no idea. Don thinks that if Charlie took all of his chalkboards, and all of his chalk, and all of the numbers in his head, he still wouldn't be able to quantify the degree to which he and Don totally didn't get each other. And the thing is, they still don't get each other, really, but at least they get that much, the lack of getting, and it works. They work.
When Don finally offers his big apology, it's kind of half-assed, and it's kind of a mess, and when he's done with it he feels about two inches tall.
Charlie says, "Thank you, you don't have to -- I was thirteen." Charlie smiles.
Charlie gets it. And right now, Don thinks that's enough.
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