Title: A is for Accessory
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest, 2nd person omniscent POV (eww, gross; I am so sorry)
Challenge: numb3rsficathon
Word Count: 1209
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Fuck this fic right in its gay brother-humping ass. It did not want to be written. It refused to be written. I forced out eight pages, worked myself into multiple corners, and finally said fuck it and cut it up. The good news? I have pages of discarded scenes now that I can play with later. Damn you, fic. You made Jesus cry.


You’ll never understand him. The complexities flash across his face, scribbling algorithms onto a chalk board, a white board, becoming immersed in the details of a formula, the point of which he attempts so desperately to communicate. You’ll never understand the way he quantifies everything and can tell you the way he thinks – knows – it’s going to be because he’s got math and physics and science on his side. There you are with your fifteen or more years of experience, your ability to sense a suspect, follow a fugitive, interpret iniquity in an interrogation, and he’s doing it all, plotting it out, without ever having felt the backfire of a gun, smelt cordite, heard the unforgiving metal of handcuffs snap around wrists.

Well, maybe he knows about the handcuffs.

Like the times when you had him chained to the bed and swallowed him down for the fifth time that night, onyx eyes staring up at his countenance, and he hoarsely cried, “Damn it, Don, no more. Stop. I can’t do anymore.” Like the times when the sounds in the room were those of your hips smacking against his ass, the slick friction of flesh inside of flesh, his moans, your heavy breathing, and metal rattling against the rails of a headboard, dark brown spirals of hair falling forward into a pillow where his face had been shoved, pale skin of a smooth neck, curls soft against the white cotton pillows and black with sweat at the neck and scalp where you had found purchase with a pulling hand.

“Charlie.” When pumping and thrusting, your brother’s name is the name of God exposed. Behind the burning bush was Charlie with a tiny chalk board and an impish grin. The Wizard of Oz, with passion so thick that it had locked his throat and had him huffing and straining for breath while he slammed his hips down to meet the strokes of your cock.

And while everybody seems to think that he’s wrapped around your finger, you know it’s really you that’s the band of gold.




Don watches Charlie intensely, his forefinger and thumb sliding together slowly because he has to do something with his fingers in order to keep them off his gun. He watches Charlie devour a plate of nachos and suck the cheese off his fingers, and Don can’t even be turned on by it. He’s too tense. Every time someone at the bar looks in their direction, his hand hovers above his gun holster. His mind is plagued by flashes of Charlie’s body being jolted like a rag doll by the charged paddles – “Clear!” ZAP “Clear!” ZAP – and Don crying and shouting and being dragged from the hospital room, and that look on their father’s face when he was watching Don watching Charlie, that look that said he knew, and there’ll be a long talk after Charlie has recovered.

Charlie smiles up at Don and winks; Don forces a weak smile in return.

“I’m okay, Don. Relax.” But when a plate drops onto the tiled bar floor and breaks, it takes five minutes before Charlie’s hands stop shaking and he can lift his eyes from the half-eaten nachos. Even after he’s stopped trembling, he can’t finish the rest of his food.

It’s ten minutes before Don realizes his gun is in his hand, finger on the trigger, safety off. The people around them have moved away, paid their tabs, eye them suspiciously from their new spots across the room. Everyone keeps distance.

That’s one way to do it.

“Charlie, let’s get out of here.”

His beer is left untouched.

“I’m never going to be able to go out again,” Charlie laments in the SUV.

“Of course, you will. We just need some time, wait for when everything is normal again.”

“I’ve never been normal.”

“Charlie…” Don doesn’t know what to say next; he puts it in drive.




The bedroom door opens quickly, and Don throws himself over Charlie’s previously sleeping body and aims his gun at the intruder.

Alan’s hands go up instinctively, eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ, Dad. Knock.” He sets his gun back on the nightstand and notices that his father’s eyes are still bulging. “Charlie was too scared to sleep alone, okay? It’s perfectly understandable.”

“I’m right down the hall.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not an FBI agent.”

Charlie glances back and forth uneasily. “Don, did you just pull a gun on Dad?”




Charlie’s out in the garage when Alan corners Don.

“Sit down, Donny.” His black eyes burn.

“Dad, now’s not a good – ”

“Sit down, son.” Firm, rough, staccato.

“I know how it looks…”

“Do you? Do you have any idea how it looks? Your mother dies, and then you and your brother – ”

“This has nothing to do with Mom.”

“You’re damn right.” They stare each other down for long seconds that drag on as hours.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Yeah? Who should it be?”

“How about Charlie? He’d follow you to the ends of the earth, into bed, for crying out loud, right into the path of a bullet.”

“That was not my fault!”

“Last I knew, mathematicians weren’t showing up to shoot outs.”

“You know I’ve told him time and time again to stay away.”

“And has he ever listened?” Don looks to the floor. “He can’t stay away from you.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“He’s Charlie.”




“Charlie.” His name drips from your lips, your body prickled with heat and sweat and need and God, has anything ever felt this good?, and you feed on the way his face clenches, eyes close tighter, every time you slam inside him. Ugly-headed, white-hot euphoria makes you want to mock how easily he gives into you, accommodates you, begs and pleads and craves you, opens himself consistently and so fully to you, you’re my little whore, aren’t you?, but the words come out twisted and in reverse. “God, I’m such a slut for you, Charlie.”

The words that come out are the truth.

Your ring around his finger tightens just as his body around you tightens, clamps down and evokes and elicits and dares and demands and commands and milks you so completely and mercilessly that you think the brilliant, blinding light behind your eyes is going to permanently take your sight.

You fall forward onto him, press your face cheek to cheek with your mouth to his ear and gasping for breath, and his arms wrap around you, a hand to your back, a hand behind your neck.

“It’s okay, Don.”

The confession is on your lips – I love you; no, really, I love you – but you can’t bring yourself to let it come out.

What if Billy Cooper saw you like this? “Damn, Eppes, you’re going soft? Should have known that desk job was bad for you. There’s no room for that cards and candy shit out here. Never thought I’d see the day you’d turn into Bambi.”

What if Ian Edgerton saw you like this? “These people know how to sense your vulnerabilities, and they’re not afraid to use them. With that look on your face, they’ll know exactly where to strike. You’ve put yourself at risk.”

You can’t seem to make yourself care.