fredbassett | Fic, Numb3rs, Crossing the Line, Part 2, Don/Ian, 18

Title: Crossing the Line, Part 2
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing/Characters: Don Eppes/Ian Edgerton
Rating: 18
Warning/Spoilers: None
Summary: Don recalls events earlier that day …..
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, don’t sue

Don held out the beer bottle.

Edgerton wrapped his fingers round the bottle. Closing them round Don’s own hand.

They were standing close together. Too close for comfort, but Don refused to back off. It was his flat. His kitchen. His beer.

The sniper’s hand was warm and reminded him forcibly of how cold he felt, even though the flat was adequately heated and he was still wearing a jacket.

Don shivered. Uncomfortably aware of the bulge still straining at the zip of his jeans.

Stress reaction.

The worst of it was that Edgerton was right. It wasn’t uncommon to get a hard on after a fire-fight, or similar. Most agents acknowledged it as a fairly standard reaction to the excess adrenaline still coursing through their systems after major action of any type. Easily dealt with, most times. But for that he needed to be on his own. Not sharing his flat with the cause of the stress.

What the hell had he been thinking of when he’d taken the decision to send Megan out of the room only four hours ago?

Actually, he’d been thinking about a kid. Abused. Terrified. Locked in a box. OK, a big box, but still a box. Running out of air. Dying.

That’s what he’d been thinking of.

Charlie’s math had narrowed down the possible hiding places, but they’d still known they wouldn’t get there in time. Not unless the guy talked. And he wasn’t talking. The only good point was that he hadn’t demanded a lawyer either, but they’d still been running out of time.

The look on Edgerton’s face had said it all. Leave him to me. Words that hadn’t needed to be said aloud. Dark eyes had flickered to Megan, then to the door. Eyes as flat and hard as a snake’s. And with about as much emotion.

Don’d known that Coleman wasn’t afraid of him, but the guy had flinched when Edgerton had gotten too close. They’d noticed that and played on it, but it hadn’t been enough. And after watching another five minutes dragging their way round the clock like broken snails, he’d finally told Megan to go see what progress Charlie was making.

Then he’d moved to lean against the door and Coleman had finally started to sweat but it still hadn’t been enough. Another five minutes of conventional question and answer had followed. Another five minutes of precious air that wasn’t being replaced. Another five minutes of darkness and terror. Another five minutes wasted.

Something inside Don had finally snapped. He’d lost it before with suspects. It hadn’t happened often, but when it did, it was a hot anger, easily restrained, instantly regretted.

This was different. This was the slow cold burn of a driftwood fire. Then he’d nodded to Edgerton and stepped mentally over the line. A line he’d always sworn he’d never cross.

It would matter later. He’d known that. But there …. then …. in the interview room, he’d no longer cared. All that had mattered was finding the kid alive.

Don had watched with a cold detachment he hadn’t known he was capable of.

Watched as Edgerton had reduced the other man to a crying, snivelling wreck in less than the five minutes it had taken Don to reach his decision. And the worst of it had been that Coleman wouldn’t even have a mark on him to show for his pain. All Edgerton’d done had been to press a finger or a thumb into a nerve point and then clamp his other hand over the man’s mouth, stifling the screams. And then repeat the process.

The sniper had carried on long beyond the point when his victim had been willing to talk. Beyond the point where it had become obvious that the guy had lost control of both his bladder and his bowels. Beyond the point where the stink of pain and fear had almost obliterated the other smells pervading the room.

He knew what game Edgerton was playing. Knew the agent was taking no chances. He wasn’t risking the guy sending them on a false trail. He was gonna break Coleman before he even started demanding answers.

Long fingers found nerve points that Don hadn’t even known existed. Where the fuck had the bastard learnt this stuff? He’d always known there was an edge of something unconventional about Agent Edgerton, but he hadn’t expected this.

And he hadn’t expected his body’s own reaction either. The growing hardness between his legs, the feeling of almost sexual anticipation. He was not a pervert. But what the hell was happening to him?

Mercifully, no, scrub that, there’d been no mercy in that room, it was soon obvious even to him that the guy was in no state to lie. Edgerton had extracted the information they’d needed and then they were out of there, yelling orders, leaving behind a shattered, sobbing wreck. And no-one seemed to give a flying fuck. All that had mattered was finding the child.

“The kid lived, Eppes.”

The voice dragged Don back to the present, to his own kitchen. He slid his hand out from Edgerton’s fingers leaving the other man in sole possession of the beer bottle, but he didn’t move away.

“So you just said, Agent Edgerton. And I stick to what I said. We crossed a line. And I don’t have to like it, right?” Don’t like myself much either.

The sniper raised the bottle to his lips and drunk half of what remained in one long swallow. Then handed it back. Don took it automatically and drained the rest. The glass still warm from the other man’s hand. And mouth. There was just something too uncomfortably intimate about that, but still Don didn’t draw back.

He tossed the bottle in the direction of the trash can and it dropped home on top of the others with a broken chink.

A slight smile quirked the sniper’s lips and abruptly, Edgerton gave ground. In one fluid movement, he turned and headed for the bathroom, leaving Don feeling vaguely cheated, the way he felt sometimes when Charlie managed to slither out of a fight, avoiding confrontation as he so often did with an almost athletic ability.

Don grabbed two more beers and headed into the main room, shrugging his jacket onto the floor, kicking shoes off and sprawling out on the sofa. He realised a moment too late that he should have set one of the beers down a safe distance away.

Edgerton slid onto the cushions next to him, avoiding contact this time as he took possession of the bottle and settled back, one ankle crossed over his knee, eyes closed, drinking the beer.

Don watched him. Watched the slow rise and fall of the other man’s chest. Watched the way he swigged from the bottle, letting the cool liquid slide down his long throat. Watched him swallow. Watched as the professional mask of cold detachment gave way again to something else, something more indefinable. Something that made Don stop hating him.

He settled back into the corner of the sofa and closed his own eyes. Trying and failing to ignore the erection still straining at his jeans. He wanted to tug at the denim in the hope of easing himself into a more comfortable position, but somehow touching himself down there didn’t seem like that good an idea at the moment.

“So how come I missed Torture 101 when they were running it at Quantico?” he asked, trying and probably failing, to keep his tone light.

“You’d probably skipped classes for a baseball game or something. Anyway, it’s not your sort of thing, Eppes.”

“Is it yours?”

The silence that greeted the question dragged on for longer than was comfortable and Don opened his eyes, expecting to find the sniper watching him.

He was wrong. Edgerton’s eyes were still closed and this time the tiredness wasn’t disguised. The man looked exhausted. “No. Or at least not in that context.”

What the hell was that remark supposed to mean?

“I do what I have to do, Eppes. You know that. And I’d rather have what I did today on my conscience than another dead kid. There’ve been too many already that we couldn’t save, you know that. And we had a chance of getting to that one in time, but he wasn’t gonna crack. I knew it. You knew it. Hell, even Reeves knew it. Why d’ya think she didn’t come back?”

He was probably right about that as well, and that didn’t help any either. He wasn’t going to be the only one who felt like shit now, he reckoned, but it hadn’t been her decision, it had been his.

And he was going to have to live with it.

Don’s hand dropped to his crotch and he pulled at the fabric in irritation. He was gonna have to live with this as well. A visit to the bathroom suddenly seemed like a very good idea.

A warm hand slid over his and a voice said, “Leave it, Eppes, I owe you one.”

Then the hand pressed down and almost involuntarily Don’s hips thrust up and something suspiciously like a groan hit the back of his throat.

A second later his eyes flew open and he tried to shift away, but long, strong fingers gripped him through the denim and a thumb rubbed along his erection, hard and insistent and he realised that Edgerton’s own eyes were still closed.

The thumb found the head of his cock and rubbed that as well.

What the fuck …………?

Don’s eyes fell shut, his breath catching behind his teeth, head tilted back. It felt so fucking good, so good that it almost drove everything else out of his mind. Almost but not quite.

Then abruptly, the hand let go of him and Don’s brain struggled to locate whatever shreds of sanity he had left after that shit-awful fucking day. But before he’d even had chance to frame an outraged What the hell do you think you’re playing at? the hand was back, and this time it was fumbling with the top button of his jeans, dragging at the zip, and releasing the almost unbearable tightness from around his cock. He groaned again as fingers and thumb touched him a second time, but now through thin cotton, not thick denim.

And this time the noise he made was unmistakeably a groan.

His hips thrust up again and he closed his eyes. It was easier to deal with this if he couldn’t see what was happening. Easier to pretend that it was just his own hand ……. touching, rubbing, caressing …….

Doing what he’d been wanting to do for the last couple of hours.

Detachment settled around him like kevlar and he brought the bottle to his mouth again, letting the beer slide down to his stomach in long cold trails inside him, ignoring the fact that the tightness in his throat meant that some leaked out round the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his neck.

Then he dropped the empty bottle on the floor wondering how far Edgerton was prepared to go with this. And how far he was prepared to let him go, for that matter.

But at the moment it just felt too fucking good to want to stop. Fingers tugged at the top of his pants and his cock came free, then skin was sliding over skin and he felt the roughness of the gun calluses at the base of Edgerton’s forefinger and he gave a kind of strangled hiccup.

“I’d advise breathing, Eppes, I think you’ll find it helps,” Edgerton’s amused voice slid over Don’s skin like silk.

The first breath he dragged into his lungs was ragged, the second not much better. His hips pressed upwards again, seeking the contact, following it, demanding it, even craving it, and fuck, he’d worry about what it all meant tomorrow, when he was sober. When he didn’t have the hard on from hell.

Yes …... like that …… harder…… yes…… there …… just there …… oh shit …… please ... … faster … … yeesss … … don’t stop ……

“Not stopping ………….”

Oh fuck, he hadn’t just said some of that aloud had he?

His stomach executed a perfectly timed back-flip and his next groan wasn’t even stifled.

Don heard a low chuckle deep in Edgerton’s throat.

The other man’s hand tightened on him and started to move even faster, Don’s leaking fluid slicking the smooth skin of his own cock, the friction just perfect, just too fucking perfect and then he was coming hard ….. panting ….. thrusting …… no rhythm now ……. just broken movement …… every breath rasping ……… almost painful ……

And still those long fingers moved up and down, slick and wet and rough, dragging one last shuddering groan out of him, then the hand dipped down to cup and rub his balls and even the groan broke apart in splintered pieces.

How many more lines were left to cross? he wondered, before rational thought surrendered gratefully to feeling and then just for a little while he went beyond caring.

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Damn.

Just damn.

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Fic, Numb3rs, Crossing the Line, Part 2, Don/Ian, 18

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