Work Text:
Pairing: Charlie/Ian from Numb3rs
Beta: IgnobleBard, even after all these years “You're still the one”
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: For the full quote and where I got it from please see the end of this story.
Feedback: Always appreciated, send to RadioFlyer2410@aol.com or through this site.
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“For memory is the only friend grief can call its own.”
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Charlie can do the math and he knows the days when both Don and Ian have been to see their therapist. He thinks it must be some sort of cosmic joke, that out of all the therapists in LA, Don and Ian have to see the same one. It might be an insurance thing, the one mathematical problem he has yet to figure out. 1+1 doesn't equal 2 here.
The other part for which Charlie has no answer is what happens afterwards. Ian always shows up at his house. He never says why and Charlie doesn't ask. Ian stalks from room to room, looking behind doors, checking that the windows are locked. Once satisfied that all is in order he sits down in the garage on the couch that faces Charlie's chalkboard.
Ian looks at the problem occupying Charlie's attention. Ek=1/2mv2, this is math he recognizes.
“Why are you studying the speed and mass of a bullet through kinetic energy?”
Charlie doesn't seem surprised that Ian knows this equation. “Don and I argued one day about guns he said that until I fired one I would never understand.”
For a moment it seems like Charlie is going to say more, but then he chooses to repeat himself and Ian only catches one word, “..understand..”.
“Understand what?”
Charlie turns around, stub of chalk in one hand eraser in the other and calmly studies Ian. “That I would never understand him.” A moment's hesitation. “That I wouldn't understand you.”
Ian has killed many men and for the first time he understands that last second before a target dies because Charlie has just fired a bullet he hasn't seen coming. A small spark flares in a place he has long thought dead and inwardly he is pleased though outwardly he reveals nothing.
Ian fidgets for a moment and now it's Charlie's turn to listen close.
“I feel safe here.”
It appears as though he is about to say more, but then Ian sets his jaw and Charlie knows this topic is closed for discussion.
They eye each other for another moment before Charlie turns back to his chalkboard. Safety for a man who kills others for a living. It's a good a answer as any he supposes.
Peace, like the setting of the evening sun, descends into the garage and for awhile the only thing to be heard is Ian's calm breathing and the skritch of Charlie's chalk.
"You know that equation works great for handguns, but it has nothing to do with the rifle I use. Nor does it take into account the physics of the wind against the bullet once I fire.”
Charlie ghosts a smile over his shoulder at Ian. “These numbers don't apply to you, they apply to me.”
He walks away and Ian listens to him rooting about in another room. A few minutes later he returns and puts a plastic case on the pool table. Ian hears the familiar snick of latches on a gun case being opened and he is by Charlie's side in two steps.
“That's a Sig Sauer P228 and it's what the military uses these days.” He switches from calm to mad, “what in the hell made you decide you needed a gun?”
Charlie pops the clip out and makes sure the firing chamber is empty before handing it over to Ian. “I'm tired of hearing 'Charlie you can't understand this or Charlie you don't know that, or Charlie math can't teach you a damn thing about the real world'.”
He disappears into the other room returning with several target sheets. Taking his gun back he hands the targets to Ian.
Ian pretends not to notice, not to be impressed as Charlie slaps the clip back in, checks the safety and then boxes the Sig up again.
Ian looks over the targets, Charlies first efforts were those of any beginner. Hits more on the edges than the center. But over time it looks as though he has gotten better and is probably shooting around 80% now. Several shots are through the center body mass. Kill shots. the thought leaves Ian chilled.
“You going to keep shooting?”
“No”, he goes back into the other room, gun case in one hand targets in the other. “I set out what I intended to do. I felt what it was like to be Don.” The words come out muffled, like Charlie is in a closet stuffed with clothes. “What it was like to be you.”
Charlie returns to the room and Ian grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt (the skin beneath his hand feels warm and alive). He drops his hand lest he give any other thoughts away, “You let me and Don worry about what it's like to do what we do. You be Charlie, use your math, be Superman and help us save the day.”
Ian laughs at the sour look Charlie gives him. It's a nice sound and he realizes how very little he's ever heard Ian laugh.
He smiles. “Dad's been cooking again let's see what's in the fridge.”
Charlie heats the food while Ian sets the table. It feels a little too domesticated but if he turns around and sees Charlie in an apron he isn't going to be surprised either. It's a nice feeling, the two of them doing something so incredibly normal, together. Twenty minutes later they are eating, Ian with a beer and Charlie with a soda.
“When I'm on assignment all I drink is water.”
Charlie looks at him. “Is this the point where you say, 'I'd tell you more but then I'd have to kill you'?”
Ian gives a quick snort, it could be a laugh or a sob, maybe even both. Charlie isn't sure which.
“There's nothing to really tell, it's always the same; sand or snow, sun the wind. You always feel alone and it's so quiet you can hear your ears humming. Sometimes you can hear the cry of a bird high overhead so you know you aren't totally alone. Then your target comes. One shot, one kill and then you're hiding until the time is right and you can disappear.”
Charlie's eyes are wide and his fork hovers halfway between the plate and his mouth. “What's it like out there?”
Thoughtfully Ian chews for a moment, he swallows, puts his fork down and steeples his hands.
“It gets lonely. The last thing you see is some guys face before you pull the trigger. You don't even have time to put your weapon down before you see his head blown off. There's blood, brains, the bodyguards are running around, but from that distance they can't see anything.” Ian takes a drink of beer. “It's been said that when you kill a man you are responsible for his soul for the rest of your life.”
Charlie's never heard Ian be so honest before and he isn't sure what to say. So he just nods what he hopes is understanding and finally gets his fork the rest of the way to his mouth.
They sit there in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The only sound that of utensils scraping against plates. Then Charlie looks over at Ian. His friend has no mask, there is pain in his eyes and Charlie is humbled that Ian has chosen to share it with him.
Ian stands up and drains the rest of his beer. “Old ghosts always come back when you least expect them too.”
Then before Charlie can think or do more, Ian says, “Mind if I take a shower?”
“You know where it is.”
Then Charlie is left to stare at the space Ian has just vacated and he wonders how you give comfort to a man whose whole world is based on the belief that comfort can get you killed.
He can hear the water running upstairs and a totally inappropriate image of Ian with the water flowing down his body enters his mind. Immediately he switches gears and lets the numbers flow through him. It doesn't work as now the numbers become a mathematical expression of a different kind of desire. Shaking his head he focuses all his thoughts on the mundane task of cleaning up. Slowly the numbers start to work their magic on him. Only when he is certain that his voice won't give anything away does he call his father.
"Hey dad, you staying at Don's tonight?”
"Ian over again?”
"Yeah.”
"Tell him to stay out of my blood pudding.”
"You ate it all last week.”
Alan laughs. “You do know that the best part of this is that it grosses you and your brother out?”
"Dad you bring something like that in this house again and you're gonna find all your pots and pans on the front lawn.”
“OK son,” then Alan grows serious, “I'll keep an eye on your brother and you do the same for Ian. Love you.”
Charlie hears the gentle affection in his father's voice.
“Love you too dad.”
Libido and brain now firmly back in place Charlie heads back into the garage and is working on a new problem for his students when Ian comes back in.
"“No more ballistics?”
"Class assignment.”
"Good.”
Charlie looks over his shoulder, “Huh?”
Ian meets his gaze. "You're not a killer you shouldn't have to know those things.”
"Well everyone in the office says..”
"I don't give a fuck what everyone in the office says. Don and I, we know death.”
Charlie waits Ian out. Looking at him with those eyes that Ian finds himself dreaming of from time to time. It could be Antarctica or the Sahara Desert. He'll be on a mission, catching that last bit of sleep before work begins in earnest. In his dreams he sees warm brown eyes and hears the familiar skritch of chalk on a blackboard. It's his heart telling him he belongs by Charlies side, not on some God forsaken spit of land in the middle of nowhere. He isn't quite sure why his brain never listens to his heart. But he knows he would rather take the most dangerous assignment ever, than to tell Charlie how he feels.
Charlie sets the chalk down and dusts his hands off. “Death is a part of life.”
Ian drops his head into his hands. “I don't want it to be a part of yours.”
“You can't protect me forever.”
1+1=2 here and Ian finds no comfort in that fact.
The shadows lengthen across the floor as Charlie wishes for a math book that covers life and Ian prays for a military manual that covers the basics of caring for someone you have no desire to kill.
In the end they both give up. Charlie goes back to thinking of equations that will drive his students crazy while Ian stretches and says something about being tired.
"Your room is ready.”
“It's Don's old room.” Ian protests.
"It's your room now, even Don has said so.”
Ian feels a wall begin to crumble. “Thanks.”
Charlie ghosts another smile his way before turning back to his chalkboard.
It's a good a answer as any Ian supposes.
As he heads up the stairs he wonders if it's possible for 1+1 to equal 1. He smiles to himself thinking that such a suggestion would probably have Charlie's head spinning.
Charlie continues scribbling, erasing, thinking and then more scribbling for about another hour. A check of his watch shows it's later than he realizes. Following Ian's earlier pattern, he gives a check around the house, windows and doors locked. He is tired and all his body craves is hot water and a soft bed. He is asleep within the hour.
Somewhere in the middle of the night he sits up in bed. He's lived in this house for nearly a lifetime now, he knows every noise. The heat pump shutting off, the refrigerator running through it's defrost cycle, the drip in the bathroom sink that stops as soon as he tries to fix it then starts again when he walks away. All the sounds that make this house a home. Tonight it is too silent, something is wrong. Quietly he slides out of bed and heads down the hallway. Ian's door is wide open, the bed empty, sheets and blankets kicked to the floor. He goes from scared to worried. Don has taught him a thing or two about stealth and he works his way down the stairs letting the shadows hide his movement.
He steps off the last stair and looks to his right. Ian is sitting on the couch a blanket is draped halfway across his shoulders against the chilly California night. His face is drawn, tired and Charlie realizes this is one of those nights when old ghosts have come to visit.
Charlie moves towards Ian, touching him gently on one arm. Ian gives no indication that he is aware of Charlies presence. He breathes in and then out, nothing more or less than that.
Carefully Charlie climbs over the back of the couch giving Ian ever chance to pull away. But Ian still does not acknowledge anything. Charlie positions himself closely behind Ian, adjusting the blanket so that both of them are covered, warm.
He feels the the first sobs long before he hears them and he sits there in silence, offering comfort in the only way he knows how. Because now he understands what Ian has always known. For memory is the only friend grief can call its own.
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A/N: The partial quote at the beginning and end of this story is from the Alabama Monument located in Chickamauga Battlefield, Chickamauga, GA. The monument is a four sided shaft that points towards the sky. The full quote is below.
“In tender memory of Alabama soldiers who fought and fell on Chickamauga Battlefield. This shaft shall point to these exciting scenes and visions long since flown. 'For memory is the only friend grief can call its own'.”
“Here we rest, September 19-20, 1863”