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[fic] A Long Time Coming [PG13: Danny/Martin] 7/?
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; Chapter Three; Chapter Four; Chapter Five; Chapter Six
Notes: Okay, here it is. I'm not wholly sure about the ending, so this chapter is posted with the caveat that I'll change it if my uncertainty becomes impossible to ignore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He felt time slipping from him as the cab wound its way up to Queens, as they crawled past pedestrians and buildings, the driver oblivious to Danny’s muttered demands to go faster – as though, in the very beginning of the evening rush hour, this were possible.
At last, at last, they pulled up in front of his building and Danny was out of the back seat in a flash, barely pausing to collect his coat and pay the driver. With an effort he made himself be casual and not look around, to see if he’d been followed or if people were watching his apartment. The force of the adrenaline throbbing in him was unexpected and overwhelming, and he couldn’t believe there was a time when he’d lived like this, or that he’d been used to it – pushing nightmare images and fear to the back of his mind, forcing himself to stay in the moment.
Once inside his building door he took the stairs two at a time, made himself pause at the beginning of the sixth flight to gather himself and listen past the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
Silent, silent except for the muted noises of life behind apartment walls, televisions and the raucous laughter of his next-door neighbor’s daughter on the phone. Cooking smells already, thud of a briefcase being set down, the elevator rumbling as it lurched upward, snatches of Mrs. Reyes yelling at her husband. Sube! Idiot! Why I put up with you...
Danny drew a breath to steady himself, told himself that the sounds of human routine hadn’t – couldn’t – have been disrupted. He would have seen something, right, or heard it? Hysterical women in the streets, Mrs. Reyes turning that formidable voice on him. His attempts at reassurance didn’t work; his breath started coming tight and short again as he walked up the last set of stairs, his entire body wired and tense, right hand feeling empty without his service weapon in it.
Pulling his keys from his pocket, he walked down the hallway to his door, keeping close to the wall and moving with the smooth, stalking stride that had never really left him. Paused a moment to listen hard at his door, heard nothing except the rasping of air in his throat and his own pulse.
No sign of forced entry, and that was a good thing, he told himself. An experimental turn of the doorknob revealed that it was still locked, and the peculiar way he had to unlock it – shaking the handle twice while pulling the door shut and turning the key at the same time – told him no one had tampered with the lock.
His mind refused to settle as he cautiously entered his apartment and inspected rooms that now seemed strange and menacing. Lights off and silent, dishes done in the sink – so Martin had taken a break – and the futon made up. Danny paused in the middle of the living room to listen, heard only the shush-hush of the heater steaming away, and distantly.
Where the hell was Martin? Anger competed with fear for Danny’s attention, anger at the possibility of Martin having gone out when Danny’d specifically ordered him not to, but then came the fear that if Martin had gone out, something had happened to him.
“Martin?” he said into the silence, voice loud and startling even to himself.
He listened, breath caught in a knot of fear and hope, then:
“Danny?” His name, barely distinguishable as such, drifted from the direction of his bedroom.
All of Danny wanted to go limp, hearing that, just fall apart into a pile of exhaustion and relief on the floor. He dropped his briefcase and pulled off his coat, tried to distract himself from the aftermath of adrenaline and the images of what if that played at the corner of his awareness with activities that were reassuring and everyday. Tossed his keys on the counter, watched as they skidded across the Formica top and clattered to the floor.
“Shit.” The obscenity was oddly reassuring, and once he regained control of himself, Danny stalked down the hallway to his bedroom.
And Martin was lying in his bed. His bed, and Danny was too overcome by relief to process anything beyond the fact that Martin was alive and breathing, with files scattered across the comforter and the bedside lamp turned on low.
“Christ, Fitz, you gave me a heart attack.” Danny collapsed onto one corner of his bed, reaching automatically for his tie to pull it loose.
“Sorry,” Martin muttered, pushing himself up against the pillows with a groan. “What time is it?”
“After five,” Danny said shortly. He glanced at his hands, proud to see that they weren’t shaking like all the rest of him wanted to, and pulled his tie off the rest of the way. Contemplated strangling Martin with it, first for scaring the shit out of him and then withholding information again.
“Man.” Martin let out a low, amazed whistle. “Last I remember it was two... Must have drifted off.” He looked up at Danny, and a slight smile played at the edges of his lips, showing more in his eyes, really. “You look pretty rough. Bad day at the office?”
“You could say that.” Danny rolled his eyes. “Your dad better have work lined up for me after Tarney fires my ass – and it had better pay a damn sight more than babysitting you, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“The six bucks an hour and pizza not cutting it?”
“Not even starting to.” Danny paused, eyes closed, listening to the shuffling sounds of Martin gathering up his files. “When were you planning on telling me someone in the New York office was dirty?”
The abrupt, tense silence behind him should have angered him, because damn it, Martin had promised to tell him these things, but instead it only made him tired. Danny thought briefly of his conversation with Victor, and the other man’s strange conviction that Danny could get Martin to talk.
Sorry, Victor. And he actually meant that, God help him.
Looking up, he caught sight of himself and Martin in the mirror over his dresser on the far wall. He – they – both looked old. Worn out, Martin’s face shadowed as he stared down at his files, Danny’s own eyes dark and exhausted.
“I don’t know, not for sure,” Martin said, voice edgy with defensiveness, before it softened into admission as he added, “but I suspect.”
“Do you think it’s Dempsey or Silverman?” Danny asked, in a tone that tolerated no hesitation.
“Silverman,” Martin said, swift and utterly certain.
“You said Dempsey made the call,” Danny pointed out.
“Silverman probably told him to... It would have been easier for him to change the meeting, point the rest of the team in the direction of their other cases. Pete might not have known anything.” Martin pounded a fist against the mattress in frustration. “I can’t fucking see it.”
“What made you suspect him?” Back on the scent now, and Danny felt himself picking up a bit, mind sharpening to the demands of the moment. He turned and shifted to make himself more comfortable, saw that Martin was looking at him now, serious and solemn.
“I’d been working on the White Tigers case out of the D.C. office for about six months. Not much was happening with it most of the time, until my team got a wiretap request approved by the court. And a couple weeks after that I found a cell phone call from New York to the home of one of the group leaders... The phone was prepaid by a credit card in the name of a Robert Gardener... He’s Silverman’s brother-in-law. Corporate lawyer in Boston.”
“You run out Gardener? It could have been him.”
“A corporate lawyer ordering a kidnapping for an FBI agent he doesn’t even know?” Martin shook his head. “I checked him out – he came out clean. I started paying attention to Silverman’s team – asking for updates and stuff – and one of them said Silverman was running them ragged, on every case but the Tigers. I guess he was trying to distract them, give him more time to do whatever.”
“Fuck.” Danny couldn’t help the jittery, disbelieving sort of half-laugh that escaped him. “That ‘whatever’ could have been setting up your kidnapping. And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? No one?”
“Look, it’s not every day someone accuses a fellow agent of subversion and conspiracy,” Martin snapped. “I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t.”
“You’ve always believed in the evidence, Martin.” Gentle, a reminder, because Martin had been the evidence man back in their day, who could pull an entire life from a set of phone records and credit card statements.
“That’s the hell of it, Danny.” Martin sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
And there was so much, so much that Danny wanted to say to that – Believe in me, Fitz, believe in us – but that was stupid and dangerous, because the look in Martin’s eyes (tired again, and bewildered) said he was beyond believing words, believing anything.
Really, he shouldn’t be surprised because he knew how much words were worth. Martin had always known, had always been sensitive to hypocrisy and untruth and rhetoric. He preferred doing, and looking back on it Danny couldn’t remember him ever saying he was glad Danny was his friend, but doing it... staying by him when Rafi’d been dragged back down into drugs again, supporting him through the tense weeks surrounding the bar exam, smiling up at him through rain and blood and telling him everything would be okay.
So he sat there, silent and unmoving until Martin’s hand shyly sought out his and clasped it tight, and Danny wished Martin could take comfort as readily as he offered it. But he didn’t say this either, only hitched himself closer until he felt Martin’s hesitant weight against his shoulder.
* * *
Victor called that evening, at eight o’clock down to the second as promised, in the middle of Danny teasing Martin about being so domestic and doing the dishes. Martin had been threatening him with the dish towel when the phone rang, and all the fun had drained out of him as though someone had pressed a button or thrown a switch when Danny answered it.
Danny kept his eye on Martin as he set out their theory, explaining that both of them had formulated it independently and worked out the details of it together, relieved that Victor kept silent until the end of it.
And Victor was quiet for a long moment after that. Martin sat next to Danny, only the tightness of his jaw spoiling what was otherwise picture-perfect self-possession. They’d drawn out a tentative timeline leading up to Martin’s disappearance, Danny picking Martin’s brain for every email, phone call, or meeting with Silverman and his team, and as Martin had taken them through it Danny had only become more convinced that they were on the right track.
Convincing, Victor, though... He stared at the phone between them on the table, its red speakerphone light blinking, wishing he could see Victor’s face.
“Those are very serious charges,” Victor said at last, flat and unreadable.
“I know,” Martin said, and his voice held as little inflection as his father’s.
“The evidence as you’ve laid it out, though...” A sigh filtered over the static. “Some is circumstantial – there’s no way to prove that Christopher Silverman made that call, unless he admits it, and we don’t have the identities of the individuals who... who took you.” Slight waver at that, and the man was human. “Silverman may have no ties to them at all; they may have followed you.”
“But you don’t think so,” Danny said, almost on top of Victor’s words.
“No, I don’t.” Frustration now. “We need to draw him out somehow, or at least remove him from consideration as a suspect.”
Danny tapped his fingers on the tabletop, frustrated and desperate to release the nervous energy building with each passing second. Martin shot him a quelling look, and Danny glared back.
“We’re never going to get Silverman to admit anything by questioning him,” Martin said after a moment, slow and careful as though expecting Victor’s immediate and emphatic disagreement. “What if I... what if I went back to the Federal Building? Just sort of dropped by unannounced?”
The silence on Victor’s end of the line deepened.
“That sounds too much like Jack Malone,” Victor said at last, and Danny had to smother a quick laugh. Looking over, he saw Martin’s eyes glinting, the slight tilt of his mouth that spoke of amusement.
“’S why I thought of it,” Martin said, so quietly that the speakerphone couldn’t pick it up and Victor asked for Martin to repeat himself.
“Nothing, Dad.” And Martin’s voice was perfectly steady and professional, as though he hadn’t been on the verge of laughter. “But if he thinks I’m dead, or out of the way... And I show up? No way will he be able to play that off. And I can tell him what I know, but not tie anything to him directly – or tell him that, anyway.”
“And if he doesn’t react to that? You will have destroyed whatever advantage you have.”
“He might get sloppy – the credit card he used to buy the cell was a bad idea anyway. We – Danny and I – think he might have found out about the wiretaps and panicked, tried to warn his contacts to watch out. If their kidnapping plan fell through and he finds out about it...” Martin shrugged. “He might slip up. Call someone he shouldn’t... And we’ll be watching.”
“Or he could try to kill you.”
“He could,” Martin agreed. “I don’t think he will, though. Kidnapping me was risky enough. Killing me in the Javits building, with hundreds of agents around him? No way.”
Danny could almost see Victor steaming on the other end of the line, and he wasn’t happy about Martin’s solution himself, Jack Malone or no Jack Malone. It was surprising to find himself commiserating with Victor for the second time in a day, and over Martin’s stubbornness at that.
“I’ll be up tomorrow morning,” Victor said gruffly, and Danny needed a moment to register that the other man was agreeing to Martin’s plan. “We’ll go in together; you are certainly not going alone, is that understood?” And there was more of the father than the Deputy Director in those words.
“Yeah, Dad.” Martin’s reply was unexpectedly subdued and grateful.
Victor paused. “I’ll tell your mother you’re looking well,” he said at last. “And Mr. Taylor?”
Danny roused himself. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. Again.”
Dryness there, suggesting Victor knew exactly what Danny had been going through, and then the line went dead.
Martin stared at the phone as the red light winked out. Danny hit the disconnect button before the dialtone became too annoying and stretched, glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how much time had passed.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Martin muttered unhappily.
“It’s not every day you accuse a fellow agent of corruption and conspiracy to abduct you,” Danny pointed out.
“I meant my dad.” Martin offered him a sidelong look that had something of exasperation and resignation in it. “I don’t know why the hell he’s going along with this.”
“Maybe because he thinks it’s worth pursuing.” Danny couldn’t help the bit of sarcasm that laced his answer. Martin’s eyes widened in indignant reaction, but Danny kept going, riding over whatever objection Martin was about to offer. “Look, your dad’s a jerk, but y’know, Martin... He’s still your dad. And he wants to make sure you’re okay.”
Martin stared at him, gaze probing and assessing and uncomfortably Fitzgeraldian in its keenness. Danny, who had spent most of his time with Martin having those considering eyes turned on someone else, was unprepared for the impact of it.
“There are people who care about you,” he said, more roughly than he wanted, too raw and too exposed, defenses stripped away by the past few days. “Your dad does, and I know you don’t believe me, but fuck, Martin, I – ”
He brought himself up short with an effort, checking the flow of words that threatened to break loose before he reached a point where he couldn’t stop them. There was so much in him, and he knew he’d never find the words to say what he wanted or what he felt, and Martin was there looking at him, expression hovering at the edge of belief.
“C’mon,” he said, when Martin continued to sit there, frozen, “I’m exhausted, and tomorrow’s gonna suck... I’m going to bed.”
He stood and turned to go, tired suddenly beyond all endurance and wondering how and why he kept running these circles, and if it would ever stop.
A hand on his forearm, closing above his wrist, firm and not about to be shaken off, brought Danny up short and spun him around. Martin was standing now, having used his grip on Danny’s arm to lever himself up, and was standing close enough for Danny to feel the low heat of his body, the nervous tension in it, and smell him, God help him, smelling like Danny’s soap and his bed.
“D’you mean it?” Low and fierce, desperation in the compelling blue eyes Danny couldn’t hear in Martin’s voice.
Couldn’t say anything, could only nod, let Martin see the truth of it.
And then Martin was stepping closer, and then Martin’s mouth was on his, soft but insistent, tilting upward to press Danny’s lips open, and then Danny was caving because he was human and he’d been wanting this for so long–
– and then –
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: There will probably be only a couple more chapters after this, three at the most, I'm thinking. So we're almost there. Allllmost :)
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; Chapter Three; Chapter Four; Chapter Five; Chapter Six
Notes: Okay, here it is. I'm not wholly sure about the ending, so this chapter is posted with the caveat that I'll change it if my uncertainty becomes impossible to ignore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He felt time slipping from him as the cab wound its way up to Queens, as they crawled past pedestrians and buildings, the driver oblivious to Danny’s muttered demands to go faster – as though, in the very beginning of the evening rush hour, this were possible.
At last, at last, they pulled up in front of his building and Danny was out of the back seat in a flash, barely pausing to collect his coat and pay the driver. With an effort he made himself be casual and not look around, to see if he’d been followed or if people were watching his apartment. The force of the adrenaline throbbing in him was unexpected and overwhelming, and he couldn’t believe there was a time when he’d lived like this, or that he’d been used to it – pushing nightmare images and fear to the back of his mind, forcing himself to stay in the moment.
Once inside his building door he took the stairs two at a time, made himself pause at the beginning of the sixth flight to gather himself and listen past the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
Silent, silent except for the muted noises of life behind apartment walls, televisions and the raucous laughter of his next-door neighbor’s daughter on the phone. Cooking smells already, thud of a briefcase being set down, the elevator rumbling as it lurched upward, snatches of Mrs. Reyes yelling at her husband. Sube! Idiot! Why I put up with you...
Danny drew a breath to steady himself, told himself that the sounds of human routine hadn’t – couldn’t – have been disrupted. He would have seen something, right, or heard it? Hysterical women in the streets, Mrs. Reyes turning that formidable voice on him. His attempts at reassurance didn’t work; his breath started coming tight and short again as he walked up the last set of stairs, his entire body wired and tense, right hand feeling empty without his service weapon in it.
Pulling his keys from his pocket, he walked down the hallway to his door, keeping close to the wall and moving with the smooth, stalking stride that had never really left him. Paused a moment to listen hard at his door, heard nothing except the rasping of air in his throat and his own pulse.
No sign of forced entry, and that was a good thing, he told himself. An experimental turn of the doorknob revealed that it was still locked, and the peculiar way he had to unlock it – shaking the handle twice while pulling the door shut and turning the key at the same time – told him no one had tampered with the lock.
His mind refused to settle as he cautiously entered his apartment and inspected rooms that now seemed strange and menacing. Lights off and silent, dishes done in the sink – so Martin had taken a break – and the futon made up. Danny paused in the middle of the living room to listen, heard only the shush-hush of the heater steaming away, and distantly.
Where the hell was Martin? Anger competed with fear for Danny’s attention, anger at the possibility of Martin having gone out when Danny’d specifically ordered him not to, but then came the fear that if Martin had gone out, something had happened to him.
“Martin?” he said into the silence, voice loud and startling even to himself.
He listened, breath caught in a knot of fear and hope, then:
“Danny?” His name, barely distinguishable as such, drifted from the direction of his bedroom.
All of Danny wanted to go limp, hearing that, just fall apart into a pile of exhaustion and relief on the floor. He dropped his briefcase and pulled off his coat, tried to distract himself from the aftermath of adrenaline and the images of what if that played at the corner of his awareness with activities that were reassuring and everyday. Tossed his keys on the counter, watched as they skidded across the Formica top and clattered to the floor.
“Shit.” The obscenity was oddly reassuring, and once he regained control of himself, Danny stalked down the hallway to his bedroom.
And Martin was lying in his bed. His bed, and Danny was too overcome by relief to process anything beyond the fact that Martin was alive and breathing, with files scattered across the comforter and the bedside lamp turned on low.
“Christ, Fitz, you gave me a heart attack.” Danny collapsed onto one corner of his bed, reaching automatically for his tie to pull it loose.
“Sorry,” Martin muttered, pushing himself up against the pillows with a groan. “What time is it?”
“After five,” Danny said shortly. He glanced at his hands, proud to see that they weren’t shaking like all the rest of him wanted to, and pulled his tie off the rest of the way. Contemplated strangling Martin with it, first for scaring the shit out of him and then withholding information again.
“Man.” Martin let out a low, amazed whistle. “Last I remember it was two... Must have drifted off.” He looked up at Danny, and a slight smile played at the edges of his lips, showing more in his eyes, really. “You look pretty rough. Bad day at the office?”
“You could say that.” Danny rolled his eyes. “Your dad better have work lined up for me after Tarney fires my ass – and it had better pay a damn sight more than babysitting you, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“The six bucks an hour and pizza not cutting it?”
“Not even starting to.” Danny paused, eyes closed, listening to the shuffling sounds of Martin gathering up his files. “When were you planning on telling me someone in the New York office was dirty?”
The abrupt, tense silence behind him should have angered him, because damn it, Martin had promised to tell him these things, but instead it only made him tired. Danny thought briefly of his conversation with Victor, and the other man’s strange conviction that Danny could get Martin to talk.
Sorry, Victor. And he actually meant that, God help him.
Looking up, he caught sight of himself and Martin in the mirror over his dresser on the far wall. He – they – both looked old. Worn out, Martin’s face shadowed as he stared down at his files, Danny’s own eyes dark and exhausted.
“I don’t know, not for sure,” Martin said, voice edgy with defensiveness, before it softened into admission as he added, “but I suspect.”
“Do you think it’s Dempsey or Silverman?” Danny asked, in a tone that tolerated no hesitation.
“Silverman,” Martin said, swift and utterly certain.
“You said Dempsey made the call,” Danny pointed out.
“Silverman probably told him to... It would have been easier for him to change the meeting, point the rest of the team in the direction of their other cases. Pete might not have known anything.” Martin pounded a fist against the mattress in frustration. “I can’t fucking see it.”
“What made you suspect him?” Back on the scent now, and Danny felt himself picking up a bit, mind sharpening to the demands of the moment. He turned and shifted to make himself more comfortable, saw that Martin was looking at him now, serious and solemn.
“I’d been working on the White Tigers case out of the D.C. office for about six months. Not much was happening with it most of the time, until my team got a wiretap request approved by the court. And a couple weeks after that I found a cell phone call from New York to the home of one of the group leaders... The phone was prepaid by a credit card in the name of a Robert Gardener... He’s Silverman’s brother-in-law. Corporate lawyer in Boston.”
“You run out Gardener? It could have been him.”
“A corporate lawyer ordering a kidnapping for an FBI agent he doesn’t even know?” Martin shook his head. “I checked him out – he came out clean. I started paying attention to Silverman’s team – asking for updates and stuff – and one of them said Silverman was running them ragged, on every case but the Tigers. I guess he was trying to distract them, give him more time to do whatever.”
“Fuck.” Danny couldn’t help the jittery, disbelieving sort of half-laugh that escaped him. “That ‘whatever’ could have been setting up your kidnapping. And you didn’t tell anybody? Your dad? No one?”
“Look, it’s not every day someone accuses a fellow agent of subversion and conspiracy,” Martin snapped. “I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t.”
“You’ve always believed in the evidence, Martin.” Gentle, a reminder, because Martin had been the evidence man back in their day, who could pull an entire life from a set of phone records and credit card statements.
“That’s the hell of it, Danny.” Martin sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
And there was so much, so much that Danny wanted to say to that – Believe in me, Fitz, believe in us – but that was stupid and dangerous, because the look in Martin’s eyes (tired again, and bewildered) said he was beyond believing words, believing anything.
Really, he shouldn’t be surprised because he knew how much words were worth. Martin had always known, had always been sensitive to hypocrisy and untruth and rhetoric. He preferred doing, and looking back on it Danny couldn’t remember him ever saying he was glad Danny was his friend, but doing it... staying by him when Rafi’d been dragged back down into drugs again, supporting him through the tense weeks surrounding the bar exam, smiling up at him through rain and blood and telling him everything would be okay.
So he sat there, silent and unmoving until Martin’s hand shyly sought out his and clasped it tight, and Danny wished Martin could take comfort as readily as he offered it. But he didn’t say this either, only hitched himself closer until he felt Martin’s hesitant weight against his shoulder.
Victor called that evening, at eight o’clock down to the second as promised, in the middle of Danny teasing Martin about being so domestic and doing the dishes. Martin had been threatening him with the dish towel when the phone rang, and all the fun had drained out of him as though someone had pressed a button or thrown a switch when Danny answered it.
Danny kept his eye on Martin as he set out their theory, explaining that both of them had formulated it independently and worked out the details of it together, relieved that Victor kept silent until the end of it.
And Victor was quiet for a long moment after that. Martin sat next to Danny, only the tightness of his jaw spoiling what was otherwise picture-perfect self-possession. They’d drawn out a tentative timeline leading up to Martin’s disappearance, Danny picking Martin’s brain for every email, phone call, or meeting with Silverman and his team, and as Martin had taken them through it Danny had only become more convinced that they were on the right track.
Convincing, Victor, though... He stared at the phone between them on the table, its red speakerphone light blinking, wishing he could see Victor’s face.
“Those are very serious charges,” Victor said at last, flat and unreadable.
“I know,” Martin said, and his voice held as little inflection as his father’s.
“The evidence as you’ve laid it out, though...” A sigh filtered over the static. “Some is circumstantial – there’s no way to prove that Christopher Silverman made that call, unless he admits it, and we don’t have the identities of the individuals who... who took you.” Slight waver at that, and the man was human. “Silverman may have no ties to them at all; they may have followed you.”
“But you don’t think so,” Danny said, almost on top of Victor’s words.
“No, I don’t.” Frustration now. “We need to draw him out somehow, or at least remove him from consideration as a suspect.”
Danny tapped his fingers on the tabletop, frustrated and desperate to release the nervous energy building with each passing second. Martin shot him a quelling look, and Danny glared back.
“We’re never going to get Silverman to admit anything by questioning him,” Martin said after a moment, slow and careful as though expecting Victor’s immediate and emphatic disagreement. “What if I... what if I went back to the Federal Building? Just sort of dropped by unannounced?”
The silence on Victor’s end of the line deepened.
“That sounds too much like Jack Malone,” Victor said at last, and Danny had to smother a quick laugh. Looking over, he saw Martin’s eyes glinting, the slight tilt of his mouth that spoke of amusement.
“’S why I thought of it,” Martin said, so quietly that the speakerphone couldn’t pick it up and Victor asked for Martin to repeat himself.
“Nothing, Dad.” And Martin’s voice was perfectly steady and professional, as though he hadn’t been on the verge of laughter. “But if he thinks I’m dead, or out of the way... And I show up? No way will he be able to play that off. And I can tell him what I know, but not tie anything to him directly – or tell him that, anyway.”
“And if he doesn’t react to that? You will have destroyed whatever advantage you have.”
“He might get sloppy – the credit card he used to buy the cell was a bad idea anyway. We – Danny and I – think he might have found out about the wiretaps and panicked, tried to warn his contacts to watch out. If their kidnapping plan fell through and he finds out about it...” Martin shrugged. “He might slip up. Call someone he shouldn’t... And we’ll be watching.”
“Or he could try to kill you.”
“He could,” Martin agreed. “I don’t think he will, though. Kidnapping me was risky enough. Killing me in the Javits building, with hundreds of agents around him? No way.”
Danny could almost see Victor steaming on the other end of the line, and he wasn’t happy about Martin’s solution himself, Jack Malone or no Jack Malone. It was surprising to find himself commiserating with Victor for the second time in a day, and over Martin’s stubbornness at that.
“I’ll be up tomorrow morning,” Victor said gruffly, and Danny needed a moment to register that the other man was agreeing to Martin’s plan. “We’ll go in together; you are certainly not going alone, is that understood?” And there was more of the father than the Deputy Director in those words.
“Yeah, Dad.” Martin’s reply was unexpectedly subdued and grateful.
Victor paused. “I’ll tell your mother you’re looking well,” he said at last. “And Mr. Taylor?”
Danny roused himself. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. Again.”
Dryness there, suggesting Victor knew exactly what Danny had been going through, and then the line went dead.
Martin stared at the phone as the red light winked out. Danny hit the disconnect button before the dialtone became too annoying and stretched, glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how much time had passed.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Martin muttered unhappily.
“It’s not every day you accuse a fellow agent of corruption and conspiracy to abduct you,” Danny pointed out.
“I meant my dad.” Martin offered him a sidelong look that had something of exasperation and resignation in it. “I don’t know why the hell he’s going along with this.”
“Maybe because he thinks it’s worth pursuing.” Danny couldn’t help the bit of sarcasm that laced his answer. Martin’s eyes widened in indignant reaction, but Danny kept going, riding over whatever objection Martin was about to offer. “Look, your dad’s a jerk, but y’know, Martin... He’s still your dad. And he wants to make sure you’re okay.”
Martin stared at him, gaze probing and assessing and uncomfortably Fitzgeraldian in its keenness. Danny, who had spent most of his time with Martin having those considering eyes turned on someone else, was unprepared for the impact of it.
“There are people who care about you,” he said, more roughly than he wanted, too raw and too exposed, defenses stripped away by the past few days. “Your dad does, and I know you don’t believe me, but fuck, Martin, I – ”
He brought himself up short with an effort, checking the flow of words that threatened to break loose before he reached a point where he couldn’t stop them. There was so much in him, and he knew he’d never find the words to say what he wanted or what he felt, and Martin was there looking at him, expression hovering at the edge of belief.
“C’mon,” he said, when Martin continued to sit there, frozen, “I’m exhausted, and tomorrow’s gonna suck... I’m going to bed.”
He stood and turned to go, tired suddenly beyond all endurance and wondering how and why he kept running these circles, and if it would ever stop.
A hand on his forearm, closing above his wrist, firm and not about to be shaken off, brought Danny up short and spun him around. Martin was standing now, having used his grip on Danny’s arm to lever himself up, and was standing close enough for Danny to feel the low heat of his body, the nervous tension in it, and smell him, God help him, smelling like Danny’s soap and his bed.
“D’you mean it?” Low and fierce, desperation in the compelling blue eyes Danny couldn’t hear in Martin’s voice.
Couldn’t say anything, could only nod, let Martin see the truth of it.
And then Martin was stepping closer, and then Martin’s mouth was on his, soft but insistent, tilting upward to press Danny’s lips open, and then Danny was caving because he was human and he’d been wanting this for so long–
– and then –
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: There will probably be only a couple more chapters after this, three at the most, I'm thinking. So we're almost there. Allllmost :)
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