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The dark smoke filled space of Wayne’s bar is swimming before Charlie’s eyes. Tonight’s barkeep, a tough looking woman named Sandra, slides him another shot with a reproachful look. Sarcastically, he cheers her and downs it, hissing through his teeth in the aftermath of the burning alcohol. Maybe he should have opted for the classic alcoholics option and drank alone at home. She doesn’t have to look at him that way, he’ll sleep it off in his car. He’s a fucking cop after all. Someone slides onto the barstool next to him, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Carlisle.
“Charlie,” he says tentatively. Charlie is usually nursing something when he shows up, but has never actually been drunk in front of the man.
Fuck. I must actually look bad.
“Has something occurred?” He sounds concerned. Charlie should turn and look at him. But his defenses are down, no telling what his face will give away.
You really didn’t think this through did you, idiot?
Instead of turning, he shrugs and takes a pull from his ever present whisky glass. The man next to him shifts and sighs. Charlie caves and lolls his head towards the doctor. He really wants to look at him anyway. Predictably, Charlie is immediately transfixed: eyes bouncing from his smooth hair, to his caramel eyes, to his white throat revealed by the undone top button of his shirt.
Carlisle’s perfect eyebrows drift together in a look of real concern. Might as well tell him: “My daughter. Isabella. She’s coming to live with me.”
Carlisle’s face flits from happiness to confusion: “I am sensing that this is giving you some anxiety? But surely, this is good news. Being able to spend more time with her?” His tone is a question.
Charlie finishes off his drink with a flinch, signaling with his fingers for another. Carlisle stiffens, makes eye contact with Sandra and gives her a minute shake of his head. She rolls her eyes and turns back to Waylon, who is also drowning his sorrow in mediocre tequila shots and whisky. Copycat, Charlie thinks childishly.
“Charlie. I think you have had quite enough. I am taking you home and putting you in bed,” Charlie’s mind fizzes to a complete halt, eyes bugging out of his head. Obviously, he didn’t mean it like that. Charlie’s useless mind repeats the word bed bed bed.
Carlisle is looking at him with confusion. Take you to bed , his mind switches the words. Carlisle reaches out to take Charlie’s arm, and he can’t resist an uncharacteristic giggle.
Fuck me, I haven’t giggled since kindergarten.
Carlisle is really starting to look alarmed now. Charlie takes pity on him and magnanimously doesn’t make Carlisle carry him out like some kinda Victorian lady.
Charlie stumbles out onto the curb, his breath fogging the chilly February air.
“Keys,” Carlisle is looking sternly at him, with hand outstretched. Charlie drops the cold metal into the doctor's hand and reaches for the passenger door of the cruiser.
———
The heater in the car is pathetic. His fingers are freezing as he holds them close to the little plastic grills. Jesus, Carlisle doesn’t look cold at all. Hands at a sensible 10 and 2 position on the wheel. Nice hands. Big. Bet he’s really good with them.
“I have never been to your home. Can you please tell me where to drive?” Charlie startles, face heating. He grumbles out some vague directions, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.
“She’s never lived with me before,” he breaks the silence. “She only occasionally visits. I’m so happy she is coming, you know? But also. Fucking terrified,” his words are still slurring slightly, but he feels a little more sober.
“Charlie. By the way you speak of Isabella, I do not doubt that you are a wonderful father. You clearly love her very much.” Fuck, now he’s going to get all weepy.
Charlie clears his throat and grunts out a thank you. He can tell, even with his eyes closed, by the turns they are taking that they are almost to this home. He wishes they had longer together.
———
To his surprise, Carlisle goes with him inside.
“I’m fine now. Can take it from here,” he says awkwardly.
“Are you sure you require no assistance?” Carlisle looks out of place in his dingy kitchen with the Formica countertops.
Charlie nods and Carlisle looks like he wants to say something else.
“As you wish. I will see you soon,” Charlie lets out a breath when he hears the front door close.
The next morning when he’s stumbling out of his house with a splitting headache, he nearly trips over a brown paper bag on his doorstep. Inside, there is a large water bottle, aspirin, and a piece of paper with a phone number written in elegant script. Despite how often they see each other, he has never needed to have Carlisle’s number. It’s just for emergencies or whatever, he reasons.
Don’t let your imagination run away with you.
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