Work Text:
Memories of You
by Spikedluv
The next night, Charlie showed up at Don's apartment clutching a shoe box in his hands.
"What's that?" Don said, as Charlie shoved past him into the living room.
Charlie didn't answer, so Don followed him, stood with his arms crossed over his chest and watched as he set the box on the coffee table, his hands gentle, as if he handled something precious. He sat down on the couch, then looked up at Don and patted the spot next to him.
"What's this about, Charlie?" Don asked, feeling a little bit impatient with his brother.
"I want you to look in it," Charlie said.
"What is it?" Don reached out and carefully lifted the cover off. Inside was a disparate collection of items.
"Memories," Charlie said. "I looked through yours, so I want you to, uh, I want you to look through mine."
"Charlie," Don said, unable to hide his annoyance. Leave it to Charlie to think that a little tit for tat made them even when Charlie was a nosy little bastard and had never been able to keep his hands off Don's stuff, ever.
"I don't need to look at your, your memories, Charlie, I just want you to respect my space, my things!" And god, he hoped that didn't sound as pathetic as he thought it did.
"Please, Don."
Don had never been able to resist that combination of wide-eyes and pleading tone. He sighed, then sat down and reached into the box. At first he felt like a voyeur, but then he found himself interested in discovering what his brother had found important enough to keep.
On top was Charlie's student ID with a picture of a thirteen-year old Charlie, his shorn curls making his eyes seem even bigger, who looked scared and excited and so out of his element that it made Don's heart ache as if someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed. He knew that this Charlie had existed, but it was hard to remember. Charlie had been the bane of Don's existence in high school and he'd forgotten that it hadn't always been that way.
Beneath that was Don's minor league baseball card, the bent and stained corner proof that Charlie had held it often.
Don's eyes stung as he lifted out the heart-shaped locket their mother had worn until the day she'd entered the hospital for the last time. He opened it, already knowing what he'd see. On one side, a picture of him when he was three years old, his short hair sticking up because it had never stayed the way his mother combed it, and on the other, a picture of three-year old Charlie, his head a riot of curls that were just as uncontrollable.
Next was Don's FBI ID card from his first year in the Bureau. He thought he'd lost it on a visit home and had to get replaced when he returned to the office, but it appeared that even then Charlie had been unable to keep his hands off Don's stuff. He tilted his head just enough to catch Charlie's eye, and didn't miss the flush when Charlie realized what Don was holding.
Don set it aside and moved on to a small envelope. Inside were some pictures, which Don tipped out into his hand and carded through: Charlie sitting on the front porch, swimming in Don's jersey, baseball cap sitting at an angle so it only covered one of Charlie's eyes; Don giving a sleepy Charlie a piggyback ride to bed; Charlie carrying Don's bat and glove; Don standing tall and proud in his high school uniform; Mom, Dad and Charlie at Charlie's college graduation; all four of them at Don's; Don in his Stockton Ranger uniform; and Charlie and Susan, both laughing and completely unaware of the camera that had captured their images.
Don slipped the pictures back into the envelope and set it to the side. Next were two letters, folded together: Charlie's acceptance to Princeton and the invitation to teach at CalSci.
Beneath those, several newspaper cuttings were paper clipped together: the announcement of Don's draft and assignment to Stockton; a hometown boy makes good story when Charlie became the youngest professor to be offered tenure at CalSci; and their mother's obituary.
Don's hand shook as he set them on the coffee table with the other items he'd already removed and lifted out a picture that Charlie had finger-painted when he was three, their family represented in four stick-figure forms, Mom and Dad standing in the back, Don and Charlie in front. Instead of birds in the sky, Charlie had written numbers in the clouds.
Folded up at the very bottom was a thick stack of sheets covered with numbers; Don's baseball stats for nearly fifteen years.
Silent, and with as much care as Don imagined Charlie handled these precious memories, Don put everything back in the box. He was a little bit overwhelmed, a little bit humbled by what he'd seen. Charlie had always seemed to be so wrapped up in his numbers that Don had never realized how much of Charlie's life had been invested in him. Turning his baseball card over in his fingers, Don said, "Why did you show me these?"
Charlie shrugged, but Don could tell that this, this sharing had meant a lot to him. "I just, I want you to understand me."
"Oh, Charlie."
"All those times, when I, uh, when I touched your stuff, I just wanted to be closer to you. I missed you. And I don't want to live in different worlds."
"We don't, Charlie. Not anymore."
Charlie looked up at him, hopeful, and Don held his arm out. "C'mere, buddy."
Charlie slid beneath his outstretched arm, just as warm and solid a presence as he'd been thirty years ago when their mother first placed Charlie in his arms.
"We're good now, right?"
Charlie reached out to touch the baseball card Don still held, and nodded. "Yeah, we're good."
The End