.fic: Sombra y Espacio (D/M) NC17

[aesc]

Title: Sombra y Espacio (Shadow and Space)
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: NC17; sex, angst.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to CBS &c. And the fangirls were sore aggrieved.
Advertisements: Set after S4 and conceptually related to Sin Dirección, but it's not necessary to read that fic to understand what's going on here. Written for wordclaim50 challenge #36 (PWP).

For smilla02.


SOMBRA Y ESPACIO

It had been late by the time they’d stumbled through the door of Martin’s apartment, later still when they’d fallen into bed, too tired almost to do anything but pull off clothes and crawl under the covers.

And now Danny, paradoxically, is awake with the kind of exhaustion that leaves body and mind too wired to rest. It’s left him wandering, trying to find sleep and dreams, but he’s wound up chasing his own thoughts instead. It’s got him sitting up in bed and staring into the darkness, listening to the white noise of the central heating and the breathing of the man asleep next to him.

In out, in out, slow and reassuring exhalations and Danny tries to pace his own breathing to them. He’s close enough that he can feel the rise and fall of Martin’s body, a steady rhythm that should hypnotize him, lull Danny into sleep, but he finds himself counting the seconds between each breath instead, staring down at Martin through the darkness.

Martin a paler shadow, warm, almost invisible at Danny’s side. Streetlights pick out odd details – cheekbone, the bony point of Martin’s shoulder – and the blinds paint black/silver stripes on the bare skin his abdomen, the hand draped sleep-graceful across it. Trail of light across the scar low on Martin’s left side, the skin smoother, almost reflective where it twists and turns, where the surgeons had put Martin back together. Danny can’t help but touch it, trail exploratory fingers over it, though not so long ago he’d kissed it for the first time, learned its texture with his mouth, still something new on a body that endlessly surprises him, still frightening when he thinks about it too much.

Martin sighs, a quiver of flesh under Danny’s hand, shifting into the touch, elusive and careful as it is. Muscles tighten briefly and Martin’s breathing changes, a quick hitch that tells Danny Martin’s awake now.

“Danny?” sleep-fogged question. Martin moves and the light changes on him, silver sliding from cheekbone to temple, down his arm and torso, the folds of the sheet where it rides just below his navel. “You okay?” Martin’s eyes are dark, unreadable in the shadows.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Danny admits. “Still kind of wired.”

Silence at that. Martin looks away, hearing what Danny isn’t saying. Light catches his face in silhouette.

“Holt’s firing pin jammed,” Martin says, very carefully. “And I’m fine.”

Ignoring, of course, the fact that if their suspect’s gun hadn’t jammed Martin might very well have been shot. That the suspect might not have missed if he’d gotten a second chance.

Danny had heard the echoes of two gunshots, reverberating off metal and concrete, had run as fast as he could, headlong and reckless and guessing at the right direction, until he’d rounded a blind corner and seen Paul Holt and Martin standing there, Holt starting violently when he saw Danny and dropping his gun as though it burned him.

Everything after that had been anticlimax. A good outcome, or as good as it could be under the circumstances: they’ve found their missing girl, Holt is going to prison for kidnap and rape, and Martin is fine.

But he could not be, and goddammit, Danny doesn’t worry about stuff like this, the what-might-have-been shit that’s usually Martin’s province. Only, he realizes with a private laugh, he has been worrying ever since he’d left Martin half-dead in the hospital last year, while Martin seems to have acquired a measure of fatalism. Danny’s not sure he’s okay with that.

“I’m fine,” Martin says with uncharacteristic force, trying to convince himself as much as Danny, and Danny’s pretty sure that Martin believes this as much as he does.

Casi no te encuentro a tiempo, he whispers in reply, doesn’t know whether he’s talking about Martin almost dying a year ago or Martin being one step away from addiction or Martin almost being shot today. Podría haberte asesinado y no hubiera sido capaz de hacer nada. Anything except almost be too late again, in time to do nothing but watch Martin bleeding out on a cold warehouse floor.

Martin’s face is bewildered in the shadows, and Danny realizes belatedly he’s lapsed into Spanish. Doesn’t translate though, not sure if he wants Martin to know the extent of his fear, because Danny Taylor is, most emphatically, not afraid of anything. He’s taught Martin a bit of Spanish, mostly swear words – because those are always fun and make Martin look at him disapprovingly even as he grins – and he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t taught Martin enough for him to understand what he’s saying now. But it feels good to say the words, a confession of almost-failure, even though Martin can’t understand him.

Only he does understand of course, because that’s Martin for you, who gets Danny, and Danny will never understand how this is, because he’s not sure if he ever understands Martin.

But Martin’s turning against him now, one arm sliding low across Danny’s body to pull the two of them together, and Danny comes with maybe too much desperation, body covering Martin’s – because he wants Martin like this, under him and tangled in him, where Danny can keep him safe – pressing him down into the mattress and Martin complies, understanding the pressure of Danny’s body against his, the unspoken order of it.

Night is heavy around them, darkness mixed with Martin’s breath and quiet movement, sheets rustling as Martin kicks them impatiently back, trying to pull Danny closer. Danny’s face is in Martin’s neck, the damp, sleep-warm curve of it where all Danny can smell is faint sweat and soap and Martin, and Martin’s breath is hot against his ear. Hot and slow, deep breaths that make Martin’s chest press hard enough against Danny’s so he can feel Martin’s heartbeat, force and flex of hard muscle.

Pulls back enough to get his hands between them, shivers as Martin leans up to lace an arm around Danny’s neck, open-mouthed kiss that’s more breath and suggestion than anything, Danny’s name that’s not so much a name as it is a sound low in Martin’s throat. It’s understanding and assent and impatience, more than Danny can describe or wants to, and he thinks that the day he figures all this out – what’s in Martin’s eyes when he looks at Danny like this, the easy way he lets Danny have control and yet still seems to keep it – is the day he’s never going to be able to break away.

Or maybe he is caught already, has been, by the arm wrapped around his neck, Martin’s breath tangled with his, hard, deliberate encouragement in the body beneath him.

“Come on,” Martin says, harassed and annoyed and so Martin that Danny has to laugh. Has to laugh and go with it, because this is crazy, midnight existential angst and this is Martin naked underneath him saying Get moving Taylor, and there’s no choice, really, and so he goes. Goes with it and with Martin, feels Martin’s satisfied sigh deep in his chest.

Se te ve tan bien aquí, así, Danny tells him, shapes the words into kisses and flirting bites around Martin’s left nipple, tasting shudders and heartbeat as Martin arches into him, whispers low and incoherent appreciation.

Never mind that he can’t really see Martin that well in the darkness of his room, because he doesn’t need to see. He knows, knows what Martin looks like under those awful suits, how his chest and shoulders slope, the line from ribs to flank to hip that Danny can trace with his eyes forever. And in the darkness he can see Martin with his hands, measuring out the breadth of his chest, mapping the texture of muscle and bone, wandering over familiar territory – vagando, vagando y le encanta sentir la piel de Martin debajo de ellos– traveling over Martin’s torso, scars still seeming unfamiliar, and Danny makes himself touch them, the rough, unnatural twist of them, reminds himself that scars mean healing and life.

And the hell of it is, Danny doesn’t know how but this is more real – the immediacy of touch, Martin solid underneath him, touching him in reply, hands on Danny’s shoulders, his chest, walking down his spine. No give in Martin’s body and no give in Martin either, refusing to let Danny take it easy or take it slow, skin damp with sweat, brighter trails where Danny’s kissed him: across the plane of chest and abdomen, down across his flank – long, sinewy weave of muscle and Danny could spend hours there, feeling Martin shudder against his mouth – and lower, lower, Martin’s fingers tangled in his hair now.

“God, Danny,” Martin says, words sudden, sharp, like a revelation as Danny licks along his cock, the hands in Danny’s hair tightening. Salt and precome and Danny can feel Martin’s thighs tensing, his entire body wanting to thrust up into Danny’s mouth, can feel the control in Martin that keeps him from giving in. And on any other night Danny would have set out to break down that control, would have kept going until he’d made Martin into a shuddering and begging wreck, but tonight he can’t. Can’t wait and doesn’t want to.

He levers himself up, twists over and reaches for the nightstand, Martin following along behind him, solid heat pressed close along his side, one knee hooked over Danny’s thigh. So when Danny’s finally managed to pick up the lube and condom and turn back over, Martin’s right there, pulling Danny back on top of him, back into a kiss that’s deep and desperate, all of Martin’s impatience poured into it. All his life, everything that could have vanished not too many hours ago.

And maybe Martin isn’t as fatalistic as Danny’d thought, or maybe Martin’s bent on proving to Danny that he’s okay, and Danny isn’t falling for it. Pushes Martin flat back, shoving pillows out of the way, unceremonious as he slides down Martin’s body – sweat makes movement almost frictionless, skin smooth against his own making the sheets seem rough – and takes Martin’s cock in his mouth again. Martin arches frantically against the one hand Danny can spare to keep him steady, nearly getting past but stilling when two slick fingers work inside.

“Fuck,” Martin whispers, hips moving awkwardly now, trying to time themselves to competing rhythms – Danny’s hand and Danny’s mouth – soft, broken sounds shaking Martin’s entire body. “Danny, please,” barely articulate and not much more than breath, and Danny has to break away, look up to see Martin’s face.

Y es tan hermoso tumbado en las sombras, y sus ojos son oscuros. Reluciente de sudor cuando la luz cae sobre él.

Danny fumbles in the sheets for the condom he’s dropped somewhere, is about to curse in frustration when Martin shifts against him, hard enough for Danny to look up from his search.

“Don’t bother,” Martin grunts, and God he’s staring right at Danny when he says it, and why this is suddenly overwhelming – because Danny’s had Martin look at him hundreds of times, times exactly like this.

No, not exactly, because there’s so much more in what Martin’s saying, a silent offer, and Danny wants to ask are you sure, but Martin’s propped up on his elbows now with Danny still between his legs, glare bright and forceful in the darkness.

“I said,” Martin says, very carefully, words breath-punctuated, “don’t bother.”

Doesn’t ask if Danny wants it, if Danny’s sure, doesn’t double-check to make sure Danny’s clean (which he is, and he hasn’t been with anyone except Martin since they started this), and that.... Danny doesn’t know what to do with that, other than do what Martin wants.

So he doesn’t say anything either, only reaches for the lube again – has it snatched away, Martin reaching it before he can – and slides back up Martin’s body, kissing his way across Martin’s chest to the hollow of his neck. Shivers as Martin’s knuckles ghost across his hipbone, sliding down the fine crease of skin at his groin, curling between their bodies. Fingers wrap around him, slick and clever, unexpected roughness of calluses from Martin’s gun and God it’s the hardest thing in the world to put space enough between them for Martin to work, knuckles pressing against Danny’s abdomen with every stroke. Hard because Martin’s pulling him close, his left hand pressed against Danny’s neck, and they’re kissing again, Martin’s tongue in his mouth as knowing as the hand on Danny’s cock, and all he wants is to let go.

Would, if Martin would let him, hand keeping him barely on this side of orgasm. Has to find a way to stop him, finds it in a well-placed bite to Martin’s collarbone, in shaking hands pushing Martin’s knees further apart.

Pressing inside Martin is... He can’t describe it, seeing Martin’s face ecstatic in the shadows, feeling slick, tight heat closing around him, everything too sharp and real, nothing between the two of them anymore.

And later, when he’s come back to himself, he’ll think about this and have sense enough to be frightened of what this means for them, that at some point during the past four years Martin’s become necessary to him and maybe Martin needs him the same way, and what was supposed to be comfort sex has, unexpectedly, become much more.

For now, though, Danny can’t remember the last time he’s done this, fucking someone without protection, can’t remember if it ever felt this good and is pretty sure it never was. Martin’s arching experimentally against him, testing the strength of Danny’s hold on his hips. Good and slow, pressure building along his spine, muscles shaking with the effort of holding back, waiting waiting waiting as Martin opens up to him.

Long exhalation when Martin relaxes, pulling Danny’s hands from his hips and lacing their fingers together. Danny’s too caught up in the feel of Martin around him and trying not to come to do anything but stare, blind but that’s okay because it’s dark and he knows what Martin looks like when he’s holding himself back. Careful thrust in earns a soft groan rising up from somewhere deep inside Martin’s chest, answering flex of his hips pulling Danny deeper.

Martin sets the pace, thighs tight against Danny’s sides, and Danny can’t find enough traction to take control back again, Martin’s fingers closing powerfully around his own and refusing to let go. And this, this is way too much, touching Martin, feeling like he’s being pulled away from himself, smelling Martin and tasting him and God help him Martin’s in every breath, heavy and thick and all around him, meaningful like the kiss Martin forces against his mouth.

He can hear Martin’s body speaking to him, tensing muscles telling him Martin’s getting close, breath coming fast and shallow as the last of Martin’s control falls away. It’s awkward but he manages to free one hand to wrap it around Martin’s cock – surprised gasp at that, a moment before Martin’s fingers slide over his – and it’s a new rhythm now, fast, sharp, and Martin’s control is shot to hell, Danny’s not far behind.

There’s sweat in his eyes. He has to close them against the sting of it.

And there’s heat, heat everywhere – in him, around him, in Martin’ body under him, everywhere. Like fire, like the sun and he’s burning up, everything’s burning up – night and pain and all of it, and –

And there’s nothing for a few minutes – no stickiness of come drying on Danny’s chest, no sheets that are uncomfortably tangled and wet. Only sudden silence and Martin and quiet, disbelieving breath.

Justo así, Dios, por favor quédate aquí, justo así he says when he can pull himself off Martin and collapse at his side, like the words can actually keep Martin here with him.

“Yeah.” Whether or not it’s actual agreement Danny doesn’t know.

“I’ll be back,” Danny says, waiting for Martin’s nod – it takes a second, Martin needing a moment to process – before hauling himself out of bed.

He has to turn on the light because he hasn’t figured out the safe way to Martin’s bathroom, rummages around for a washcloth and towel once he’s there. Catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he can’t decide whether the man looking back at him is an exhausted wreck or a guy who just had great sex with his... his whatever Martin is to him. Whatever they are to each other. There’s exhaustion in his eyes but elation, too, and he can see faint tracks of Martin’s fingers and teeth high on his chest, and that makes him feel absurdly good despite the hell of the past few days.

Gradually he becomes aware he’s staring at himself, stupidly, shakes himself out of it and shuffles back into the bedroom.

Has to stop when he sees Martin there, in the light.

He’s staring, disheveled, careless, smile caught in the act of forming – not bothering with the covers, on display like Martin so rarely ever lets himself be, and Danny wonders briefly if it’s because of what happened earlier in that warehouse. Or if maybe it’s because of Danny, and that thought... He tells himself he’s still coming down from the high of orgasm, the only way to explain the weird skip and jump of his heart.

“You going to stand there all night?” Martin asks suddenly, teasing meant to break the strange silence that’s settled around them. It doesn’t work; Martin knows it and his laughter fades, and he watches solemnly as Danny watches him.

Danny doesn’t answer, only crawls back into bed and stretches out next to Martin. Watches Martin shiver as Danny runs the cloth along his stomach, slow, meditative and Martin relaxes into it after a moment. Content, almost, easy in a way that things have so rarely been for them.

Martin does move eventually, twisting around and leaning over Danny to flip off the bedside lamp. Fleeting pressure of Martin’s body and he smells like himself and Danny and sex, soap from the washcloth, and then he’s gone, searching for the covers they’ve long since kicked off the bed.

¿Estarás bien? Danny asks. Realizes he’s forgotten again and repeats himself.

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Martin says from somewhere in the darkness. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Closer now, blankets sliding up Danny’s legs, and Danny’s eyes are readjusting, enough to catch sight of movement in the shadows.

He reaches for Martin in the darkness. Finds him.


-end-

Translations: Many, many thanks to oconel and dawn_rogue for providing the Spanish -- you two are wonderful! And I must take this opportunity to tell those of you out there who haven't heard of it about fic_translation. 'Tis a great resource for those of us who only know dead languages and aren't so good with the living.

Casi no te encuentro a tiempo : Almost didn’t find you in time
Podría haberte asesinado y no hubiera sido capaz de hacer nada : He could have killed you, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.
Se te ve tan bien aquí, así, : You look so good here like this
vagando, vagando y le encanta sentir la piel de Martin debajo de ellos : wandering, wandering and he loves how Martin’s skin feels under them
Y es tan hermoso tumbado en las sombras, y sus ojos son oscuros. Reluciente de sudor cuando la luz cae sobre él. : And Martin is so beautiful lying in the shadows, and his eyes are dark. Sweat shines where the light falls on him
Justo así, Dios, por favor quédate aquí, justo así : Just like this, God, please just stay here, just like this

Post-fic notes: The title is from Pablo Neruda's "Oda a un Reloj en la Noche" (Ode to a Watch at Night).

Ack. The porn grew legs. *sigh*