Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs, Stargate SG1, Buffy or any of the characters portrayed (Except Anna-Marie Sutton). I do however own the dialogue and the story.
Warning: contains, swearing and non-graphic slash. Established M/M relationship.
‘Home.’ he thought as his ride pulled up at the suburban craftsman house. He sat for a moment and pushed his gun calloused fingers nervously though his cropped dark hair. His companion waited patiently. Working as closely has they had over the last year or so had dispensed with the need for erroneous explanations and the silence between them was full of support and understanding. Tearing his eyes away from the view before him he, glanced over at his partner, friend and teammate of the last year. The brown haired youth gave him an encouraging nod and an encouraging squeeze; brown eyes old in his young teen face. A second later he could return it and moving with determined movements he slid from the passenger seat.
A few minutes later he was clutching his duffle bag watching Jon carefully back out the drive, in the government owned SUV and continue on his way to the local hotel. At another time he would of invited Jon to stay, but not today, not this time, he wanted to get the family issues out the way, before introducing new players.
Without an audience the man, stood and looked at his childhood home. If he concentrated hard enough he could see the ghosts of summers past moving between the sun’s rays and wind tussled hedges. Two boys playing on the lawn; one older, one younger; fighting, laughing, living. Taking a deep breath for courage, he completed the journey to the front door and considered his next move. He pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the house keys, pushed them home and with a click the door opened and swung inwards. Padding softly into the shaded interior of the house, he used his battle-sharpened senses to listen for any inhabitants. Nothing. In that moment of realisation he experienced both relief and disappointment. He laughed at the surreal take on his life. After all he’d seen and been through, this scared him. Facing his family.
It was like stepping back in time. The furniture hadn’t changed; in the open bookcase there were a myriad of books on maths. The numerous dinners shared with his brother and father at that table. The baseball matches watched and analysed on the set as the three of them had squabbled and argued in familiar harmony. Suddenly he felt the weight of his stupid impetus decision, so not like him. His brain transferring from the unemotional world of logic to the impulses of pure instincts, of sentiment, of hurt, of anger and betrayal. He briefly glanced at the couch. That stupid couch, the scene of crime so to speak.
He threw down his duffle bag and looked at the couch. All those months ago, a lifetime now. Sighing he pulled of his jacket and tossed it onto the chair at the table. He debated whether he could remove the gun and holster that had been his constant companion for the last 12 months and even to think it removed him from his comfort zone. So he positioned himself, as he would rest out in the field. Holster off, but gun close at hand. Acquiescing himself to a long wait he lay down and closed his eyes. Breathing in and out, the memories of the past flickered behind his eyelids.
Alan pulled into his drive. Every year it was the same, the buying of the years Thanksgiving groceries. People rushing, pushing and shoving. Shopping as if their lives depended on this one meal. Normally he was quite organised and missed the last minute rush but the last 18 months had been harder than most and he just hadn’t had his heart in it. Snapping the seatbelt from around his waist he pulled himself from his musings to the task at hand.
Opening the back door he picked up the groceries he’d placed at his feet and strode through the kitchen, his arms full. Putting the two large brown carriers on the top, he was gearing himself up for the next trip when he spotted something out of place. There slung over one of the dining room chairs was a green jacket. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, hope, fear, he couldn’t say which. Taking his courage in his hands he walked into the living room, a duffle bag lay on the floor between the door and the sofa, easy to fall over, a corner of his father’s brain noted as he swept his eyes over the foreign objects. A man in military clothing lay on the couch, and Alan stopped breathing. Fear receded and hope flared, bright and raw. The intensity of it robbed him of his words, and his ability to speak as he stumbled over to the brown haired man.
He had no need of words though, as the man was aware of his presence and Alan found himself staring into the puppy brown eyes of his son. That instant was burned into Alan minds eye forever, he’d hoped, he’d prayed, he’d cried for this.
“You’re home.” The words Alan croaked out at last. The voice sounded alien even to him. His son didn’t move and Alan was afraid again, afraid that if wasn’t real.
“Yeah, Dad I’m home.” And it was real. They surged towards each other and Alan grabbed a hold of his son with a desperation that was returned full force.
“You’re home. My son is home.” The rest was lost in sobs from both men as they just held on to each other.
“Do you know what it’s about?” Amita said as she climbed out the vehicle. He long black curly hair bounces around her face as she moved gracefully up to the door and let herself in to her home of 6 months.
“Dad said it was a big Thanksgiving surprise.” Her companion watched as she moved, ‘God,’ he thought, ‘She’s perfection in motion.’ He leaned over to kiss her as they swept into the house. She was his addiction. Every time he touched her, it left him crazy for more, and as with any addiction he found he couldn’t think straight, in her presence. They’d been together for coming up to 21 months. After 3 years of pussy footing around they’d finally gotten together. The casual friendship between them had suddenly sparked igniting into fiery passion when neither of them had expected it. Burning everything in its way.
They were so intent on each other that they had not realised that they had an audience. One pain filled pair of brown eyes watched their display, and another set no less pain filled watched the watcher. They broke apart when the sound of polite coughing interrupted their embrace.
It took a minute for either of them to recognise the man. The clothing and atypical bearing masking the person they both knew. Amita’s hand flew to her mouth in bittersweet horror as at the same time Don disentangled himself from his fiancé and cried out to his brother, stunned, “Charlie! You're home.”
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