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[fic] Suffering Children [R: Danny/Martin] 1.1.
Title: Suffering Children
By: HF
Email: hfox @ontheqt.org/aesc36 @gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: R; language, implied sexual abuse of children
Spoilers: Mention of "Birthday Boy." Vaguely 1st season, but can take place whenever.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and many other people. Danny and Martin belong to each other.
Notes: I usually don't write about anything touching on abuse (whether sexual, physical, verbal, etc.) for what I consider good and sufficient reasons, but have made an exception to my own rule this once. In the series, Martin's reaction to the kidnapping and abuse of children is pretty strong, though as far as I can recall, though we're never really told why.
SUFFERING CHILDREN
The world is full of sick fucks.
Danny has known this for a long time, longer than he wants to think about – longer, maybe, than he can remember. He saw some of the worst of it in foster care, not the worst, but bad enough. Knows now that there’s no end to depravity, but an infinite regression, and he can never get used to that.
Can’t, not ever.
He deals with it as best he can, stays in the moment, doesn’t think past what he needs to do to find the kids and keep them safe. But Martin, he knows, doesn’t – hasn’t. Leah and Henry Johannssen have been missing for four days, should be vanished into the statistics of missing children and cold case files, but Martin hasn’t let it go, hasn’t dealt with the anger and disgust that will help him find the kids and then destroy him.
So now he and Martin are moving down the hallway of an apartment building that should long ago have been condemned, to “talk” with Albert Mitchell, their newest suspect. Martin is silent, his jaw tight, on the knife-edge of violence, and half Danny’s fear is for him.
Everything is dim and damp and smells of mold; the yellow light bulbs punctuating the cracks in the ceiling make the dinginess worse. Martin runs a hand along the wall, pointing to the seams in it, and Danny can see that a door has been plastered over. Albert Mitchell’s is one of two apartments on this side of the floor; it’d been his neighbor whom Martin talked to, reporting strange noises behind his living room wall. The man had remembered seeing Albert with two kids – niece and nephew, he’d thought, but now he’s thinking otherwise.
Danny strains to listen, and next to him Martin is sunk in a terrible, absorbed concentration.
Then they hear it: a low, whimpering moan, an animal sound
Something flashes across Martin’s face – fury, like lightning, and that’s the most emotion Danny’s seen in him since they got the tip. Martin draws his weapon and darts past Danny, flings himself against the door of Mitchell’s apartment, which gives way with the thick splintering of rotting wood.
“Fuck, Martin!” Helpless, almost too surprised to move, Danny forces himself to follow, gun at the ready.
“Get down! Get down!” Martin’s voice cracks with command. Over Martin’s shoulder Danny sees a blur of frantic motion and pale flesh. “Hands behind your back now.”
Quick as that it’s over, and Albert Mitchell is on the floor, frozen face-down on it, one dark eye rolling up to stare fearfully at Martin and Danny.
“Where are they?”
Quiet, so quiet, and Danny wishes that Martin would shout or curse – anything except this frozen, ruthless rationality. The gun aimed at Mitchell’s temple doesn’t waver.
“Where are they?” Quiet, quiet, and there’s death in Martin’s eyes.
“Bed – the bedroom,” Mitchell gasps. “Closet... There’s a door in the back.”
“Danny.” Martin doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. All of him is focused on Mitchell, a disheveled, pale-faced man weeping into his carpet.
Obediently, Danny backs into the kitchen, tries to keep tabs on Martin and navigate his way through a strange apartment at the same time. He’s waiting for a gunshot, hoping and fearing that he’ll hear it, as he ghosts through the grimy kitchen and into a bedroom that stinks of old sex and rotten food. The closet is a box of horrors: hardcore porn and restraints, children’s clothes with telltale stains on them.
His stomach heaves at the sight and smell; he swallows the bile and loathing and pushes on, finds the door and the latch that leads to the room hidden behind the plastered-over door in the hall. Deal with it, deal with it. Deal. He forces himself to stay in the moment, not think beyond the need to find the kids and get them out safe.
And they’re there, bound and gagged on a broken mattress but alive, blessedly alive. He can’t speak for the relief of it.
Carefully he approaches the children, tells them his name and that he’s here to help them – they watch with terrified eyes, flinching as he unties the filthy handkerchiefs and then the fishing twine, shepherds them out of that room, back the way they came.
He inches them out into the living room; Leah and Henry stare at Martin like he’s some avenging angel, and maybe, Danny thinks, he is. Sam’s here now, standing in the doorway, frozen, gaze fixed on Martin, and Danny hands over the kids to her. She leads them away, glancing over her shoulder, already radioing down to Jack.
“I should fucking kill you, you sick son of a bitch.”
Mitchell’s apartment is a marinade of human sweat and dirt. It’s dim, shades drawn against the daylight, but seems darker. Martin’s eyes catch what light there is, and shine glassy with fury. The rest of him is drawn tight as a tension wire, but his face... No emotion in it, only cold certainty and dispassion.
“Please,” Mitchell whispers into the dirt and ashes on his carpet, “don’t. Oh, please God, don’t.”
Click of the hammer as it goes back.
“Martin – ” Danny has his own gun trained on Mitchell, to make sure the man stays down and still so he has some chance at making it out of here alive so the guys in Riker’s can deal with him. “Martin, c’mon, let me take over.”
Like he’s done ever since he’s known the man, he insinuates himself into Martin’s personal space. Is close enough now to see that Martin’s really not seeing Mitchell anymore, to see that Martin’s expression is a mask for the battle going on behind those eyes. Slowly, slowly Danny reaches across Martin’s body, slides one hand over Martin’s hands to push the gun down and away.
* * *
He’s been thinking about the Gabe Freedman case, the savage satisfaction in Martin’s eyes when he’d dragged their suspect out of that pond, dripping wet. It had only been later on the plane ride home, and in the elevator up to the office that Danny had seen the aftermath of adrenaline and success, the tide of ‘what if’s’ that made Martin’s face tight. And that had been the beginning. This isn’t going to be the end.
“I would have killed him.” Quietly, bitterly analytical. Martin is tense, drawn taut by the residue of anger, revulsion, and self-contempt. His face is all harsh planes and washed out in the paleness of streetlights.
“Know that.” Danny is tucked close against him, one leg over Martin’s, fingers tracing circles on his chest. Martin doesn’t like being touched casually, even after sex, but he’s allowing it tonight. Danny doesn’t want to think about what he would have done if Martin had shot Mitchell while he was dealing with the kids, or if Martin had shot him, after. He knows how close a thing it was. “You can’t keep doing this, Martin.”
“What am I supposed to do then? Accept it and move on?”
Danny shakes his head, temple rubbing against the warm firmness of Martin’s shoulder. “Deal with it. There’s a difference.” Martin’s fingers move over his, trapping them against his chest. “If you can’t...” He pauses, feeling Martin’s heartbeat. “If you can’t, it’ll tear you up inside.”
“I know this,” Martin says, his voice small and brittle, on the edge of control. “But... but I can’t, Danny.”
“Why?”
Why do you let this tear at you?
“It’s not right.”
That simple, that complicated.
“I know,” Danny says, wishing he could say more, hoping Martin hears it.
Martin’s hand on his, a ghosting of fingers over his wrist, tells him that he does.
-end-
In other news: More LTC tomorrow or Wednesday, with any luck.
By: HF
Email: hfox @ontheqt.org/aesc36 @gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: R; language, implied sexual abuse of children
Spoilers: Mention of "Birthday Boy." Vaguely 1st season, but can take place whenever.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and many other people. Danny and Martin belong to each other.
Notes: I usually don't write about anything touching on abuse (whether sexual, physical, verbal, etc.) for what I consider good and sufficient reasons, but have made an exception to my own rule this once. In the series, Martin's reaction to the kidnapping and abuse of children is pretty strong, though as far as I can recall, though we're never really told why.
SUFFERING CHILDREN
The world is full of sick fucks.
Danny has known this for a long time, longer than he wants to think about – longer, maybe, than he can remember. He saw some of the worst of it in foster care, not the worst, but bad enough. Knows now that there’s no end to depravity, but an infinite regression, and he can never get used to that.
Can’t, not ever.
He deals with it as best he can, stays in the moment, doesn’t think past what he needs to do to find the kids and keep them safe. But Martin, he knows, doesn’t – hasn’t. Leah and Henry Johannssen have been missing for four days, should be vanished into the statistics of missing children and cold case files, but Martin hasn’t let it go, hasn’t dealt with the anger and disgust that will help him find the kids and then destroy him.
So now he and Martin are moving down the hallway of an apartment building that should long ago have been condemned, to “talk” with Albert Mitchell, their newest suspect. Martin is silent, his jaw tight, on the knife-edge of violence, and half Danny’s fear is for him.
Everything is dim and damp and smells of mold; the yellow light bulbs punctuating the cracks in the ceiling make the dinginess worse. Martin runs a hand along the wall, pointing to the seams in it, and Danny can see that a door has been plastered over. Albert Mitchell’s is one of two apartments on this side of the floor; it’d been his neighbor whom Martin talked to, reporting strange noises behind his living room wall. The man had remembered seeing Albert with two kids – niece and nephew, he’d thought, but now he’s thinking otherwise.
Danny strains to listen, and next to him Martin is sunk in a terrible, absorbed concentration.
Then they hear it: a low, whimpering moan, an animal sound
Something flashes across Martin’s face – fury, like lightning, and that’s the most emotion Danny’s seen in him since they got the tip. Martin draws his weapon and darts past Danny, flings himself against the door of Mitchell’s apartment, which gives way with the thick splintering of rotting wood.
“Fuck, Martin!” Helpless, almost too surprised to move, Danny forces himself to follow, gun at the ready.
“Get down! Get down!” Martin’s voice cracks with command. Over Martin’s shoulder Danny sees a blur of frantic motion and pale flesh. “Hands behind your back now.”
Quick as that it’s over, and Albert Mitchell is on the floor, frozen face-down on it, one dark eye rolling up to stare fearfully at Martin and Danny.
“Where are they?”
Quiet, so quiet, and Danny wishes that Martin would shout or curse – anything except this frozen, ruthless rationality. The gun aimed at Mitchell’s temple doesn’t waver.
“Where are they?” Quiet, quiet, and there’s death in Martin’s eyes.
“Bed – the bedroom,” Mitchell gasps. “Closet... There’s a door in the back.”
“Danny.” Martin doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. All of him is focused on Mitchell, a disheveled, pale-faced man weeping into his carpet.
Obediently, Danny backs into the kitchen, tries to keep tabs on Martin and navigate his way through a strange apartment at the same time. He’s waiting for a gunshot, hoping and fearing that he’ll hear it, as he ghosts through the grimy kitchen and into a bedroom that stinks of old sex and rotten food. The closet is a box of horrors: hardcore porn and restraints, children’s clothes with telltale stains on them.
His stomach heaves at the sight and smell; he swallows the bile and loathing and pushes on, finds the door and the latch that leads to the room hidden behind the plastered-over door in the hall. Deal with it, deal with it. Deal. He forces himself to stay in the moment, not think beyond the need to find the kids and get them out safe.
And they’re there, bound and gagged on a broken mattress but alive, blessedly alive. He can’t speak for the relief of it.
Carefully he approaches the children, tells them his name and that he’s here to help them – they watch with terrified eyes, flinching as he unties the filthy handkerchiefs and then the fishing twine, shepherds them out of that room, back the way they came.
He inches them out into the living room; Leah and Henry stare at Martin like he’s some avenging angel, and maybe, Danny thinks, he is. Sam’s here now, standing in the doorway, frozen, gaze fixed on Martin, and Danny hands over the kids to her. She leads them away, glancing over her shoulder, already radioing down to Jack.
“I should fucking kill you, you sick son of a bitch.”
Mitchell’s apartment is a marinade of human sweat and dirt. It’s dim, shades drawn against the daylight, but seems darker. Martin’s eyes catch what light there is, and shine glassy with fury. The rest of him is drawn tight as a tension wire, but his face... No emotion in it, only cold certainty and dispassion.
“Please,” Mitchell whispers into the dirt and ashes on his carpet, “don’t. Oh, please God, don’t.”
Click of the hammer as it goes back.
“Martin – ” Danny has his own gun trained on Mitchell, to make sure the man stays down and still so he has some chance at making it out of here alive so the guys in Riker’s can deal with him. “Martin, c’mon, let me take over.”
Like he’s done ever since he’s known the man, he insinuates himself into Martin’s personal space. Is close enough now to see that Martin’s really not seeing Mitchell anymore, to see that Martin’s expression is a mask for the battle going on behind those eyes. Slowly, slowly Danny reaches across Martin’s body, slides one hand over Martin’s hands to push the gun down and away.
* * *
He’s been thinking about the Gabe Freedman case, the savage satisfaction in Martin’s eyes when he’d dragged their suspect out of that pond, dripping wet. It had only been later on the plane ride home, and in the elevator up to the office that Danny had seen the aftermath of adrenaline and success, the tide of ‘what if’s’ that made Martin’s face tight. And that had been the beginning. This isn’t going to be the end.
“I would have killed him.” Quietly, bitterly analytical. Martin is tense, drawn taut by the residue of anger, revulsion, and self-contempt. His face is all harsh planes and washed out in the paleness of streetlights.
“Know that.” Danny is tucked close against him, one leg over Martin’s, fingers tracing circles on his chest. Martin doesn’t like being touched casually, even after sex, but he’s allowing it tonight. Danny doesn’t want to think about what he would have done if Martin had shot Mitchell while he was dealing with the kids, or if Martin had shot him, after. He knows how close a thing it was. “You can’t keep doing this, Martin.”
“What am I supposed to do then? Accept it and move on?”
Danny shakes his head, temple rubbing against the warm firmness of Martin’s shoulder. “Deal with it. There’s a difference.” Martin’s fingers move over his, trapping them against his chest. “If you can’t...” He pauses, feeling Martin’s heartbeat. “If you can’t, it’ll tear you up inside.”
“I know this,” Martin says, his voice small and brittle, on the edge of control. “But... but I can’t, Danny.”
“Why?”
Why do you let this tear at you?
“It’s not right.”
That simple, that complicated.
“I know,” Danny says, wishing he could say more, hoping Martin hears it.
Martin’s hand on his, a ghosting of fingers over his wrist, tells him that he does.
-end-
In other news: More LTC tomorrow or Wednesday, with any luck.
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