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[fic] A Long Time Coming [PG13: Danny/Martin] 3/5ish
Title: A Long Time Coming
By: HF
Email: hfox @ ontheqt.org/aesc36 @ gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: PG13 for now. Minor swearing, heaping cupfuls of UST.
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and very likely many other people.
Previous parts: Chapter One; Chapter Two
Notes: On the characterization of the elder Fitzgerald... Although Victor is a complete and utter jerk, I'd like to think that he's not totally devoid of fatherly or human qualities.
CHAPTER THREE
“Well? What was that about?” Martin asked suspiciously as Danny walked back toward him.
“You, my man, have some explaining to do, and then the doc says I have to let you get back to sleep.” Danny fell back into his chair, rested his forearms atop the metal railing. He offered Martin his best “good cop” smile – which was also the smile that happened to aggravate Martin the most.
Sure enough, Martin rolled his eyes and snorted. “You need to work on your bedside manner, you know that?”
“No complaints so far,” Danny said placidly. “Want some water? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Please.” Martin watched, a faint tinge of red painting his cheekbones, as Danny poured a cup. He accepted it and took a long drink, sighed, and leaned back against the pillow. And when Danny thought he’d drifted off, or wasn’t going to say anything, he spoke, softly and tentatively, feeling his way through the memory.
“I... I had business in the New York office. Last-minute – I remember that.” He drew a breath. “I got in Sunday night, I guess; the meeting was for the next day.” He closed his eyes, struggling for clarity like so many memories Danny had of friends and family of the missing. “I was there on regular business – the meeting got bumped up from Wednesday, I think. Some conflict or other that an agent had.”
“What department?”
“Counter Terrorism. Domestic, mostly – anarchist organizations.” Martin smiled slightly, a bitter and ironic expression. “They wanted me to do international work – y’know, extremist groups – but I couldn’t.” And Danny knew why, knew the pain behind that.
“So what happened after your meeting?”
Martin looked almost relieved at Danny’s forcibly returning them to the topic. “I remember walking outside the building. I was hungry, and it was... I think it was lunchtime. One or so.”
“Fitz, your stomach has never been on the same clock as the rest of ours.” Had to joke because it hurt a little bit, knowing that Martin had come to New York and hadn’t called or emailed or anything.
Martin laughed quietly, but didn’t open his eyes or turn his head back to Danny. “No, it was lunchtime; I was going to call someone. I had my phone out.” And he did open his eyes now, and he raised his hand as though holding a cell phone. “I was – I was going to dial the number, but that’s it... I don’t think I did; the next thing I remember is waking up here.”
“It helps a lot.” Danny tapped his fingers on the bed railing, shaping his thoughts to the rhythm. “Whatever happened to you happened in front of the federal building. That’s something, at least. And you’ll probably remember more, given time.”
“Guess so.” Martin didn’t sound terribly convinced. “What’s going on? I mean, with me, not with... with whatever happened.”
He’d been hoping to distract Martin first with nonchalance and then with an interrogation, but the problem with Martin knowing him better than most people also meant that Martin was wise in his ways and he couldn’t get away with this sort of stuff. Briefly, he explained about the hypothermia and the dehydration, the bruises and sprained ankle. Martin’s face darkened as the catalogue of his injuries wore on, looking more furious than anything else, until Danny paused.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” And Martin still knew how to read his silences.
“Yeah, there is.” He didn’t want to say it, couldn’t, but Martin was looking at him with that expectant expression he’d sometimes used on people they’d questioned – eyes slightly wider, head turned a fraction to the side, as though he were simply waiting for a response that was inevitable. That it worked most of the time was no comfort.
“The exam found traces of drugs in your system.” He watched Martin carefully, but the expectant look never wavered. “Cocaine, given not long before you ended up in that alley.”
“God.” The curse was choked and soft. Martin’s left hand drifted absently to the gauze on his forearm. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Martin nodded, jaw tense, determinedly not looking at Danny. “Do they know how I... how it got into my system?” Voice too steady now, speaking of emotion tightly checked.
“They shot you up,” and the fingers touching the bandage and the hazy, confused look in Martin’s eyes told Danny that Martin had known on some weird, somatic level what had been done to him. “Do you remember any of it?”
“No.” Martin barked a laugh. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Danny admitted, and when the silenced dwindled into awkwardness, he added, “You know, I bet you’re starving... I’ll get the doctor – ”
“Not necessary, Mr. Taylor.” Danny looked up, and there was Sorensen standing in the doorway as if he’d been conjured, looking somewhat less self-possessed than he had earlier. “There’s... someone here to see you.” And, looking past Sorensen, Danny could see the shadow of Victor Fitzgerald, vague behind the drawn blinds.
“Your dad’s here,” Danny said, turning back to Martin. “I had to tell him what’s going on, Fitz.”
“Yeah.” Martin’s voice was tight, and he resolutely did not look in the direction of the doorway. “Of course.”
“I’ll go talk to him.” Danny stood up and straightened his jacket, taking the chance of protest out of Martin’s hands. He slapped Martin’s leg under the covers, earning an indignant look, and grinned. “It’ll work out, Martin. Wish me luck.”
“You’ll need it.”
Of course he would. Danny was acutely aware of his appearance; he’d left his suit coat draped over one of the rails on Martin’s bed, and he’d rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Not the picture he wanted to present to Victor Fitzgerald, immaculate and outwardly unaffected by the news that his son had been missing for four days and miraculously found again.
Danny paused briefly to ask Sorensen about food. The doctor nodded and strode off down the corridor, leaving Danny and Victor alone. The two men shook hands, and there was something of testing in the firmness of Victor’s grip, a judging in some way, though Danny could not say how.
“Mr. Taylor.” Victor tilted his head, a hawkish and predatory expression. Danny had seen Martin do this before, sizing up a potential suspect, looking for weaknesses . On Martin, the gesture was intimidating; on Victor Fitzgerald it was a forcible reminder of how and why the man was deputy director of the FBI.
“Deputy Director.” Danny couldn’t help the insouciant note in his voice. Instinctive reaction to authority figures.
A thin smile touched Victor’s lips, but faded almost immediately. He nodded in the direction of an empty room across the corridor, forcing Danny to precede him into it. Uncomfortable, with that considering gaze boring into the place between his shoulder blades. Danny tried not to shrug, covered the impulse by sitting on the edge of a bed.
“How is Martin?” Victor asked. He didn’t sit, but stood with arms crossed.
“Doing okay, considering the circumstances.” Danny tried not to fidget, and wondered if Victor was looking for anything else. Fortunately, Victor seemed satisfied with that, and if that was as far as his parental concern extended, well, that was fine with Danny.
He remembered one of the first cases they’d worked together, really the first case where he’d started to see Martin as a teammate and not as competition or a pain in the ass, and Martin had said There are fathers who’re around all the time who never pay any attention to their kids and over the years Danny’s accumulated enough observations to give that remark context.
“What did he tell you?” Victor asked over steepled fingers, studying Danny narrowly.
“Not much... the general circumstances leading up to his disappearance. He has no idea why he was taken.” Danny made himself meet the man eye to eye. Knowing that Victor had no power over his career (well, not as much, maybe) made it easier. He told Victor what he knew, leaving out the detail about the cocaine – Martin would not want that broadcast, if he could help it – and hoping Victor didn’t notice the omission.
“So your impression is that it was a deliberate act.”
“I think so,” he said calmly, assuredly – and so what if he wasn’t a real agent anymore? He still knew how to work it. Saw his tone take effect as Victor nodded.
Victor eyed him appraisingly before turning to look back at Martin, and Danny figured that he’d passed some test the older man had set him. “I trust your assessment,” Victor said at last, and that was... well. Unexpected. Good, but unexpected. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“You’d probably have a better idea; I don’t know what Martin’s been working on.” Didn’t even know his department, until Martin had mentioned it. “But working on domestic terror groups would be a good way to make enemies. Or get killed.” Not only a good way, a way that was all but guaranteed.
Victor’s face tightened a moment, the closest thing to anger Danny had ever seen in him. Not that he knew the man, but the way his jaw tensed – and there, right there, the almost ferocious glint in his eyes – was purely Martin. But that briefest flash of emotion was just as swiftly stifled; when Victor turned back to him, his face was composed once more.
“I’d like you to stay on as an independent consultant for this case,” he said, voice betraying no hint of anger or fear or anything, only ruthless Fitzgerald control, and the man had to be stone-cold, referring to his own son as a ‘case’. “I know Martin doesn’t think much of me – ” (this said as a simple statement of fact, with no hurt in it that Danny could detect) “ – but the last time I spoke to him, I had the impression that there’s something going on with him, and it involves his work.”
“Look, I don’t know what I can do for you, beyond seeing what I can get him to remember. People are going to start noticing if a former agent turns up asking questions.” When he’d wished for anything to get him away from the piles of work on his desk, Danny hadn’t had this in mind at all. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m not asking you to conduct an investigation,” Victor said irritably. “My son thinks highly of you, and despite your... record, I have to agree with his assessment.” Danny pictured Martin filling out a Colleague Assessment Form and handing it to Victor as part of some weird friend approval process. “He’ll talk to you. Give you a picture of what’s going on. If this calls for an official investigation, I’ll take it from there.”
Danny was humbled by Victor’s faith in his ability to get Martin to communicate. And while he was better at it than most, there was no way he could get Martin to tell him something he didn’t want to reveal.
“He should stay in New York, then,” he said, half to himself and half to Victor. “I can’t leave the office... And if this was intentional, maybe Martin should stay missing.”
“I’ll arrange matters with his team in Washington, and furnish you with copies of Martin’s files. He can brief you on them, when he’s able.” Another long, considering Fitzgerald look. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this should be treated with the utmost discretion?”
For a person who did not make discretion a general rule, Danny was hearing the word an awful lot lately. He offered Victor his most winning smile and an earnest “of course”, both of which were accepted with a nod and nothing more, and then the interview was over.
* * *
Victor Fitzgerald did not leave right away. Instead, he watched as Taylor made his way back to Martin’s room, and thought for a moment about how the hell this got started.
The problem, he decided, was that Martin was a Fitzgerald, and Fitzgeralds were stubborn and independent. He remembered his own father’s prediction – “Victor, when you have children, you’ll understand what I’m going through” – and had to admit that the old man had been right; managing the world’s largest and most powerful investigative network paled alongside trying to control a headstrong, disobedient, and in all other ways recalcitrant boy.
Martin’s growing up hadn’t changed matters at all, and Victor had the uncomfortable suspicion that his own efforts to rein Martin in had had results opposite from what he had intended. Victor shook his head and sighed at the conundrum, and pulled out his cell to let Martin’s mother know he was looking well.
* * *
By the time Danny got back, Martin was disconsolately eyeing a tray of toast, oatmeal, juice, and a cup of the ubiquitous hospital jell-o.
“This doesn’t count as food,” Martin muttered, not even looking up at Danny. He picked up his spoon and poked at the grayish glob of oatmeal, as though expecting it to attack.
“Hey, considering the crap you used to eat on a daily basis, it’s amazing you’re not dead yet.” Danny fell back into his chair.
“I have a high metabolism,” Martin said, rolling his eyes. Despite objections, he shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and chewed on it, grimacing. “There’s not even any brown sugar,” he said thickly.
“Dr. Sorensen doesn’t want to shock your system; he thinks you might not have eaten the entire time you were being held,” Danny said calmly. “Now, my first act as government-appointed babysitter is to make sure you eat. So, unless you want to be spoon-fed” – Martin’s eyes widened in outrage and Danny smirked – “eat up.”
He was treated to another roll of Martin’s eyes and the soft snort that let him know exactly what Martin thought of that. “So I hope my dad’s paying you more than five bucks an hour to watch me,” he said around a mouthful of oat glop. Pleasure and resentment both in the words.
“Six, and he’s buying pizza.” And this was great, almost back to the way things were Before. Take away the IV and the hospital and all the rest of it, and it could be Before, this friendship shaped from this kind of back-and-forth. “But you have to be in bed by ten.”
“Good luck with that,” Martin commented, smirking at him, a sly and knowing expression that sent pinpricks of fire racing along Danny’s nerves. “I remember once when I was eight, my parents were going to some social event and Clarissa, the girl next door – ”
He broke off, and Danny was about to tease him about the mysterious “Clarissa” when he noticed the expression on Martin’s face – a sudden paling, his eyes wide and glassy with something like dawning, horrified awareness. Once again he touched the bandage over the puncture on his arm, fingers tracing around the edge of the padding.
“You – you said they shot me up,” he said, and his voice was shaking.
“That’s what Dr. Sorensen thinks,” Danny said, bewildered. “What’re you saying?”
“They shot me up, Danny,” Martin said, forcing out each word in perfect clarity as though trying to bore them into Danny’s mind.
And then he understood, and wanted to curse because he’d seen what had happened to some of Rafi’s friends and, later, the kids off the street who’d go into the free clinics the morning after a binge or another night selling themselves to survive. Some users had started snorting crack and heroin, or finding other, safer ways to find some kind of high, because of it, the fear of dirty needles.
“Dr. Sorensen didn’t say anything,” he said, forcing himself to rationality. “Here... I’ll call him.”
He pressed the call button and waited, staring at Martin’s pale and frightened face, at Martin’s hand, which was gripping his with a strength undiminished by pain and weakness, and tried to convince himself it would be okay, to be reasonable and calm because being fucking terrified and trying to see the future would do no good. He’d seen Martin unconscious and Martin shot and bleeding, and Martin crashing into situations without much caring about the consequences, and take his hits and pick himself up and keep going, too stubborn to know when he was beaten, or should be dead.
And Danny knew – oh, God he knew – that he should be grateful for that last.
tbc.
By: HF
Email: hfox @ ontheqt.org/aesc36 @ gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: PG13 for now. Minor swearing, heaping cupfuls of UST.
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and very likely many other people.
Previous parts: Chapter One; Chapter Two
Notes: On the characterization of the elder Fitzgerald... Although Victor is a complete and utter jerk, I'd like to think that he's not totally devoid of fatherly or human qualities.
CHAPTER THREE
“Well? What was that about?” Martin asked suspiciously as Danny walked back toward him.
“You, my man, have some explaining to do, and then the doc says I have to let you get back to sleep.” Danny fell back into his chair, rested his forearms atop the metal railing. He offered Martin his best “good cop” smile – which was also the smile that happened to aggravate Martin the most.
Sure enough, Martin rolled his eyes and snorted. “You need to work on your bedside manner, you know that?”
“No complaints so far,” Danny said placidly. “Want some water? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Please.” Martin watched, a faint tinge of red painting his cheekbones, as Danny poured a cup. He accepted it and took a long drink, sighed, and leaned back against the pillow. And when Danny thought he’d drifted off, or wasn’t going to say anything, he spoke, softly and tentatively, feeling his way through the memory.
“I... I had business in the New York office. Last-minute – I remember that.” He drew a breath. “I got in Sunday night, I guess; the meeting was for the next day.” He closed his eyes, struggling for clarity like so many memories Danny had of friends and family of the missing. “I was there on regular business – the meeting got bumped up from Wednesday, I think. Some conflict or other that an agent had.”
“What department?”
“Counter Terrorism. Domestic, mostly – anarchist organizations.” Martin smiled slightly, a bitter and ironic expression. “They wanted me to do international work – y’know, extremist groups – but I couldn’t.” And Danny knew why, knew the pain behind that.
“So what happened after your meeting?”
Martin looked almost relieved at Danny’s forcibly returning them to the topic. “I remember walking outside the building. I was hungry, and it was... I think it was lunchtime. One or so.”
“Fitz, your stomach has never been on the same clock as the rest of ours.” Had to joke because it hurt a little bit, knowing that Martin had come to New York and hadn’t called or emailed or anything.
Martin laughed quietly, but didn’t open his eyes or turn his head back to Danny. “No, it was lunchtime; I was going to call someone. I had my phone out.” And he did open his eyes now, and he raised his hand as though holding a cell phone. “I was – I was going to dial the number, but that’s it... I don’t think I did; the next thing I remember is waking up here.”
“It helps a lot.” Danny tapped his fingers on the bed railing, shaping his thoughts to the rhythm. “Whatever happened to you happened in front of the federal building. That’s something, at least. And you’ll probably remember more, given time.”
“Guess so.” Martin didn’t sound terribly convinced. “What’s going on? I mean, with me, not with... with whatever happened.”
He’d been hoping to distract Martin first with nonchalance and then with an interrogation, but the problem with Martin knowing him better than most people also meant that Martin was wise in his ways and he couldn’t get away with this sort of stuff. Briefly, he explained about the hypothermia and the dehydration, the bruises and sprained ankle. Martin’s face darkened as the catalogue of his injuries wore on, looking more furious than anything else, until Danny paused.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” And Martin still knew how to read his silences.
“Yeah, there is.” He didn’t want to say it, couldn’t, but Martin was looking at him with that expectant expression he’d sometimes used on people they’d questioned – eyes slightly wider, head turned a fraction to the side, as though he were simply waiting for a response that was inevitable. That it worked most of the time was no comfort.
“The exam found traces of drugs in your system.” He watched Martin carefully, but the expectant look never wavered. “Cocaine, given not long before you ended up in that alley.”
“God.” The curse was choked and soft. Martin’s left hand drifted absently to the gauze on his forearm. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Martin nodded, jaw tense, determinedly not looking at Danny. “Do they know how I... how it got into my system?” Voice too steady now, speaking of emotion tightly checked.
“They shot you up,” and the fingers touching the bandage and the hazy, confused look in Martin’s eyes told Danny that Martin had known on some weird, somatic level what had been done to him. “Do you remember any of it?”
“No.” Martin barked a laugh. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Danny admitted, and when the silenced dwindled into awkwardness, he added, “You know, I bet you’re starving... I’ll get the doctor – ”
“Not necessary, Mr. Taylor.” Danny looked up, and there was Sorensen standing in the doorway as if he’d been conjured, looking somewhat less self-possessed than he had earlier. “There’s... someone here to see you.” And, looking past Sorensen, Danny could see the shadow of Victor Fitzgerald, vague behind the drawn blinds.
“Your dad’s here,” Danny said, turning back to Martin. “I had to tell him what’s going on, Fitz.”
“Yeah.” Martin’s voice was tight, and he resolutely did not look in the direction of the doorway. “Of course.”
“I’ll go talk to him.” Danny stood up and straightened his jacket, taking the chance of protest out of Martin’s hands. He slapped Martin’s leg under the covers, earning an indignant look, and grinned. “It’ll work out, Martin. Wish me luck.”
“You’ll need it.”
Of course he would. Danny was acutely aware of his appearance; he’d left his suit coat draped over one of the rails on Martin’s bed, and he’d rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Not the picture he wanted to present to Victor Fitzgerald, immaculate and outwardly unaffected by the news that his son had been missing for four days and miraculously found again.
Danny paused briefly to ask Sorensen about food. The doctor nodded and strode off down the corridor, leaving Danny and Victor alone. The two men shook hands, and there was something of testing in the firmness of Victor’s grip, a judging in some way, though Danny could not say how.
“Mr. Taylor.” Victor tilted his head, a hawkish and predatory expression. Danny had seen Martin do this before, sizing up a potential suspect, looking for weaknesses . On Martin, the gesture was intimidating; on Victor Fitzgerald it was a forcible reminder of how and why the man was deputy director of the FBI.
“Deputy Director.” Danny couldn’t help the insouciant note in his voice. Instinctive reaction to authority figures.
A thin smile touched Victor’s lips, but faded almost immediately. He nodded in the direction of an empty room across the corridor, forcing Danny to precede him into it. Uncomfortable, with that considering gaze boring into the place between his shoulder blades. Danny tried not to shrug, covered the impulse by sitting on the edge of a bed.
“How is Martin?” Victor asked. He didn’t sit, but stood with arms crossed.
“Doing okay, considering the circumstances.” Danny tried not to fidget, and wondered if Victor was looking for anything else. Fortunately, Victor seemed satisfied with that, and if that was as far as his parental concern extended, well, that was fine with Danny.
He remembered one of the first cases they’d worked together, really the first case where he’d started to see Martin as a teammate and not as competition or a pain in the ass, and Martin had said There are fathers who’re around all the time who never pay any attention to their kids and over the years Danny’s accumulated enough observations to give that remark context.
“What did he tell you?” Victor asked over steepled fingers, studying Danny narrowly.
“Not much... the general circumstances leading up to his disappearance. He has no idea why he was taken.” Danny made himself meet the man eye to eye. Knowing that Victor had no power over his career (well, not as much, maybe) made it easier. He told Victor what he knew, leaving out the detail about the cocaine – Martin would not want that broadcast, if he could help it – and hoping Victor didn’t notice the omission.
“So your impression is that it was a deliberate act.”
“I think so,” he said calmly, assuredly – and so what if he wasn’t a real agent anymore? He still knew how to work it. Saw his tone take effect as Victor nodded.
Victor eyed him appraisingly before turning to look back at Martin, and Danny figured that he’d passed some test the older man had set him. “I trust your assessment,” Victor said at last, and that was... well. Unexpected. Good, but unexpected. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“You’d probably have a better idea; I don’t know what Martin’s been working on.” Didn’t even know his department, until Martin had mentioned it. “But working on domestic terror groups would be a good way to make enemies. Or get killed.” Not only a good way, a way that was all but guaranteed.
Victor’s face tightened a moment, the closest thing to anger Danny had ever seen in him. Not that he knew the man, but the way his jaw tensed – and there, right there, the almost ferocious glint in his eyes – was purely Martin. But that briefest flash of emotion was just as swiftly stifled; when Victor turned back to him, his face was composed once more.
“I’d like you to stay on as an independent consultant for this case,” he said, voice betraying no hint of anger or fear or anything, only ruthless Fitzgerald control, and the man had to be stone-cold, referring to his own son as a ‘case’. “I know Martin doesn’t think much of me – ” (this said as a simple statement of fact, with no hurt in it that Danny could detect) “ – but the last time I spoke to him, I had the impression that there’s something going on with him, and it involves his work.”
“Look, I don’t know what I can do for you, beyond seeing what I can get him to remember. People are going to start noticing if a former agent turns up asking questions.” When he’d wished for anything to get him away from the piles of work on his desk, Danny hadn’t had this in mind at all. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m not asking you to conduct an investigation,” Victor said irritably. “My son thinks highly of you, and despite your... record, I have to agree with his assessment.” Danny pictured Martin filling out a Colleague Assessment Form and handing it to Victor as part of some weird friend approval process. “He’ll talk to you. Give you a picture of what’s going on. If this calls for an official investigation, I’ll take it from there.”
Danny was humbled by Victor’s faith in his ability to get Martin to communicate. And while he was better at it than most, there was no way he could get Martin to tell him something he didn’t want to reveal.
“He should stay in New York, then,” he said, half to himself and half to Victor. “I can’t leave the office... And if this was intentional, maybe Martin should stay missing.”
“I’ll arrange matters with his team in Washington, and furnish you with copies of Martin’s files. He can brief you on them, when he’s able.” Another long, considering Fitzgerald look. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this should be treated with the utmost discretion?”
For a person who did not make discretion a general rule, Danny was hearing the word an awful lot lately. He offered Victor his most winning smile and an earnest “of course”, both of which were accepted with a nod and nothing more, and then the interview was over.
Victor Fitzgerald did not leave right away. Instead, he watched as Taylor made his way back to Martin’s room, and thought for a moment about how the hell this got started.
The problem, he decided, was that Martin was a Fitzgerald, and Fitzgeralds were stubborn and independent. He remembered his own father’s prediction – “Victor, when you have children, you’ll understand what I’m going through” – and had to admit that the old man had been right; managing the world’s largest and most powerful investigative network paled alongside trying to control a headstrong, disobedient, and in all other ways recalcitrant boy.
Martin’s growing up hadn’t changed matters at all, and Victor had the uncomfortable suspicion that his own efforts to rein Martin in had had results opposite from what he had intended. Victor shook his head and sighed at the conundrum, and pulled out his cell to let Martin’s mother know he was looking well.
By the time Danny got back, Martin was disconsolately eyeing a tray of toast, oatmeal, juice, and a cup of the ubiquitous hospital jell-o.
“This doesn’t count as food,” Martin muttered, not even looking up at Danny. He picked up his spoon and poked at the grayish glob of oatmeal, as though expecting it to attack.
“Hey, considering the crap you used to eat on a daily basis, it’s amazing you’re not dead yet.” Danny fell back into his chair.
“I have a high metabolism,” Martin said, rolling his eyes. Despite objections, he shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and chewed on it, grimacing. “There’s not even any brown sugar,” he said thickly.
“Dr. Sorensen doesn’t want to shock your system; he thinks you might not have eaten the entire time you were being held,” Danny said calmly. “Now, my first act as government-appointed babysitter is to make sure you eat. So, unless you want to be spoon-fed” – Martin’s eyes widened in outrage and Danny smirked – “eat up.”
He was treated to another roll of Martin’s eyes and the soft snort that let him know exactly what Martin thought of that. “So I hope my dad’s paying you more than five bucks an hour to watch me,” he said around a mouthful of oat glop. Pleasure and resentment both in the words.
“Six, and he’s buying pizza.” And this was great, almost back to the way things were Before. Take away the IV and the hospital and all the rest of it, and it could be Before, this friendship shaped from this kind of back-and-forth. “But you have to be in bed by ten.”
“Good luck with that,” Martin commented, smirking at him, a sly and knowing expression that sent pinpricks of fire racing along Danny’s nerves. “I remember once when I was eight, my parents were going to some social event and Clarissa, the girl next door – ”
He broke off, and Danny was about to tease him about the mysterious “Clarissa” when he noticed the expression on Martin’s face – a sudden paling, his eyes wide and glassy with something like dawning, horrified awareness. Once again he touched the bandage over the puncture on his arm, fingers tracing around the edge of the padding.
“You – you said they shot me up,” he said, and his voice was shaking.
“That’s what Dr. Sorensen thinks,” Danny said, bewildered. “What’re you saying?”
“They shot me up, Danny,” Martin said, forcing out each word in perfect clarity as though trying to bore them into Danny’s mind.
And then he understood, and wanted to curse because he’d seen what had happened to some of Rafi’s friends and, later, the kids off the street who’d go into the free clinics the morning after a binge or another night selling themselves to survive. Some users had started snorting crack and heroin, or finding other, safer ways to find some kind of high, because of it, the fear of dirty needles.
“Dr. Sorensen didn’t say anything,” he said, forcing himself to rationality. “Here... I’ll call him.”
He pressed the call button and waited, staring at Martin’s pale and frightened face, at Martin’s hand, which was gripping his with a strength undiminished by pain and weakness, and tried to convince himself it would be okay, to be reasonable and calm because being fucking terrified and trying to see the future would do no good. He’d seen Martin unconscious and Martin shot and bleeding, and Martin crashing into situations without much caring about the consequences, and take his hits and pick himself up and keep going, too stubborn to know when he was beaten, or should be dead.
And Danny knew – oh, God he knew – that he should be grateful for that last.
tbc.