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[fic] A Long Time Coming [PG13/R: Danny/Martin] 10/10
Title: A Long Time Coming
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @ gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R. Minor swearing, heaping cupfuls ofUST RST.
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and very likely many other people.
Previous parts: 01; 02; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08; 09
Notes: The End.
CHAPTER TEN
Martin had been gone for two weeks, and the routine of the everyday had descended on Danny with oppressive force: up at five, in the office by six-thirty, court, home at seven on good days. His concussion had eventually faded into the occasional headache and twinge in his neck, and the bruise on his shoulder – the bruise over which Martin had lingered, face suffused with guilt and regret, the one other night they’d had together – had vanished.
Last night in the shower he’d noticed it, touched unmarked skin with some surprise, seeing one of the last reminders of Martin’s brief reentry into his life faded out. And then he’d gone to bed and tried to fall asleep, glanced over at where Martin would have been – which would have been sprawled over ninety percent of the mattress, because he was an impossible bed hog, and Danny would never have guessed that – and thought that maybe absence was reminder enough.
Agent Black had come around twice to interview him, and update him on Martin’s progress in Washington. Things were proceeding apace, Danny learned, most likely because Victor was not going to tolerate any bureaucratic delays in seeing Silverman and his conspirators lined up in front of a firing squad, or else staked out in the desert for the fire ants.
Mercifully, Black hadn’t said anything else about Martin and Danny, or Martin liking Danny, or even said much about anything not related to the investigation or the hell of New York traffic. Yet he didn’t need to, really – those dark eyes were entirely too knowing and assessing for Danny’s taste, as though Black were trying to decide whether he approved of Danny or not.
The guy hadn’t shot him, so Danny supposed that he’d passed.
His first day back at work – after a lecture from Tarney, who had received an edited version of events from Victor Fitzgerald but was still disinclined to look favorably on Danny missing work – saw him sitting in his office across from Mark Treharne. The boy sat slouched in his chair, hands folded, utterly silent as Danny explained the circumstances surrounding his father’s death. The foster family Mark had been placed with hadn’t been given the details, had only known that Rick Treharne had been shot, not the how, or the why of it.
And it didn’t help that Danny had to lie, could only say that a police officer had been close enough to intervene, because no one was supposed to know why exactly an FBI agent had been escorting Danny to work that morning. Mark listened to him as he stumbled through his explanation, played nervously with his glasses for a moment once Danny finished, pushing them up and down on his nose.
“So my dad’s... My dad’s really dead?” he asked at last, like he wasn’t sure believing it would be a good thing, but looking at Danny like the words were gospel truth.
“Yeah, Mark. I’m sorry.” And that apology didn’t even begin to cover what he wished he could say to the kid. Don’t feel guilty, if you’re glad he’s gone, he wanted to say. Don’t ever feel that way; it’ll kill you better than he was doing. Trust me, I know. But he wasn’t the kid’s guidance counselor – that was why social services had child psychologists, to deal with this sort of thing and put it in complicated words.
“No... that’s okay.” Mark’s gaze bounced around Danny’s office, flickering from his law diploma to his department patches to the photo on his desk, lighting on Danny briefly before taking off again – file drawers, back to the diploma, the spider plant on its hook, the shelves stuffed full of legal texts, the photo again. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Your father’s will lists your aunt Lucy as the family member who’ll get custody of you, but you’ll probably have to stay in social services until the paperwork gets cleared up and they make sure you’re okay to live with her.”
“Okay. Aunt Lucy won’t be so bad, I guess.” Mark sighed, a wavery and resigned breath, and Danny knew what was going through his mind because he’d once had those thoughts himself – being invisible, one of a thousand faceless kids fallen into the void, into limbo, nothing stable or permanent anymore, dependent on people who might claim him by blood but never by love.
“It’ll work out in the end,” he said, as much for himself as for the boy, trying to convince himself and Mark of the truth of it. “You’ve got my number, so call any time you need to.”
“Yeah, I got your card with me..” Mark fumbled in the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out a battered business card to show him, as though Danny had reason to doubt he was telling the truth. “Thanks, Mr. Taylor.” He stuffed the card back in and stood up, shook Danny’s hand, palm sweaty and nervous, and left.
Danny watched him go, wanting to call him back, but couldn’t make himself. Through the small window looking out into the lobby he saw Mark waiting in front of the elevator, rocking back and forth on his heels, glancing around at the plants and paintings and the other people. Could see himself, suddenly, sitting on the uncomfortable plastic bench in the hospital, swinging sneakered feet, looking at the strangers gathered around him in the waiting room.
He thought briefly of the first case worker he’d ever had, Miss Susan. Weird how he could never remember her last name – he didn’t even know if he ever really knew it, because she’d introduced herself as Miss Susan and Miss Susan she had remained. All the other ones had faded out with the years, as he’d become older and increasingly difficult, a bright kid chafing resentfully against foster homes and hand-me-downs, but he could still see her there, round face under a cap of red hair, wearing an eye-blindingly bright tunic and heavy jewelry.
“You make the right decision, Daniel,” she’d told him, when she’d found him the first of his many foster homes. “Remember that.”
He’d said yes ma’am, and gone off to live with the D’Angelos, and it had taken him a while, but he’d made that decision. And he’d fucked it up big, but tried to put it right again. He wasn’t sure if he had, yet, but he was trying.
Lost Martin once, almost, and now Martin was gone again, and it occurred to him suddenly that maybe Danny Taylor had gotten too many second chances in his life, and this wasn’t going to be one of them.
* * *
Night came with depressing speed during the winter, inescapable and heavy despite the perpetual light coming from Manhattan, like a weight barely supported by wavering arms. By five-thirty the sun had vanished behind the buildings, by six the only light remaining was artificial. Danny walked from the subway to his apartment, hating the oppressiveness of it – further proof that he’d never get the Florida out of him, because even in winter the sun was there, not hidden behind perpetual night or the everlasting blankets of clouds.
Once in his apartment, he turned on every light he could find and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, glanced at the asthmatic heater in his living room before turning it up. If he couldn’t have the real thing, he could at least pretend for an evening. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe he didn’t have a touch of seasonal-affective disorder, or if maybe his recent depression wasn’t Martin-related, and God both of those things sounded incredibly pop-psychological and girly.
Huffing to himself and ordering his brain to get over its hangups, Danny wandered into the kitchen to scare up something to eat, and was disappointed to realize that both his food supply and his exhaustion meant it was going to be salad again. Just as he was pulling random ingredients out of the refrigerator – lettuce, celery, carrots that had seen better days – the phone rang.
He stared at it resentfully as it rang twice more, then picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“Hey, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Danny slouched back against the counter, listened to the silence on the other end of the line. “Uh, what’s up?” Had to wince at that, and wonder what the hell it was about the Fitzgeralds that put him off his stride.
“Not much. I hope you’re well?” Victor’s tone was dry, much like Martin’s, which most likely meant he was amused – whether by the question or the painfully evident fact that Danny was uncomfortable, Danny couldn’t tell. “I wanted to call to... ah, that is, I don’t believe I thanked you for everything you did for Martin.”
“It’s no problem,” he said quickly, too quickly maybe, had to start shredding lettuce because the nervous energy in him was too much for him to be still. The possibility that Victor had locked Martin up in some secret underground facility occurred to him – it would explain why Martin hadn’t come back, hadn’t called or even emailed him, for Christ’s sake. “How’s everything in Washington?” Couldn’t ask about Martin, because he didn’t want to know that Martin had fallen back into work again and had forgotten him.
“Everything’s just very busy, though not going as quickly as I would want.” Frustration now, and Danny grinned to himself. “I would like very much for Martin to take leave after this is all said and done, but I don’t think he will.”
“And you want me to convince him?” Danny began chopping an already-abused carrot.
“You’re very good at making Martin do things he doesn’t want to do,” Victor said, a sigh evident in the words. “To be honest, I’m not sure if this investigation would have gone as quickly as it has, without your assistance.”
“No one makes Martin do things he doesn’t want to do,” Danny told him, and he heard Victor’s resigned huff of agreement. As to the second, he stayed quiet; if Victor believed he owed something to Danny’s supposed ability to get Martin to cooperate, Danny certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion. “Anyway, you still owe me a pizza.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He winced and moved on to the celery, splitting the stalks with more force than was probably necessary. “Uh, look... What’s up with Martin, anyway? I haven’t heard from him in a couple of weeks.”
Dead silence greeted this announcement.
“Really?” The word was unabashedly bewildered when Victor finally spoke. “I – well, I apologize then. I must have misunderstood. I thought you knew that Martin was going to be in New York. He, ah, gave me the impression...” Victor trailed off, and this was the most disconcerted Danny had ever heard the man.
Victor apologizing would be rich, if Danny weren’t so upset. He took a deep, controlling breath, and made himself say, “Well, he might have had a change of plans,” he said, reminding himself with every heartbeat of his calmness and rationality. “You should give him a ring on his cell, just to check.”
“Of course.” Fears of a repeat abduction skipped through Danny’s awareness, and he knew Victor was probably thinking the same thing. “I’ll call you once I get a hold of him.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
They exchanged farewells, and when Danny hung up the phone he stared at it a moment, trying to decide whether to give into resignation or throw the thing across the room.
His conversation with Victor hadn’t soothed him; instead, Danny found himself more agitated and irritated than he’d been since Mark had left his office that morning. Where the hell is he and why hasn’t he called? Distractedly, he returned to cutting vegetables, swore when the knife missed a section of red pepper and scored his finger instead.
“Son of a fucking – ”
The intercom buzzed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” Danny slammed the knife down on the countertop and stalked over to the intercom. Jammed down the button – with his newly-cut finger – and almost shouted further obscenities into the speaker before controlling himself and settling on a more moderate, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Danny.”
* * *
He waited, impatient and angry and terrified, wishing he had the guts to go downstairs and let Martin in himself. But he couldn’t, could only wait and pace until he heard Martin’s light, quick step in the hallway outside his door.
Soft and hesitant knocking, and he was at the door almost before he could register it, yanking it open to see Martin standing there, wearing a fleece jacket and jeans and a shy, awkward smile, overnight bag in his hand.
“Hey, Danny,” he said again.
“Martin.” And he had no idea what happened to his articulateness. Could only stand and stare now, and wonder what to do, because how the hell did you greet a person you’d slept with twice but had been a friend for years? A hug? Handshake? Kiss on the cheek? Fist to the jaw? Looking at Martin, all four seemed viable options.
“My flight was delayed... I tried to call a bit ago, but the line was busy.” Martin shifted from foot to foot, eyes anxious and wary now under Danny’s scrutiny. “I wanted to see if you’d like to go for dinner or something.” He hefted his suitcase. “I came right here, didn’t check in or anything.”
“Why the hell would you get a hotel?” Danny said testily, rolling his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, come in and put that down. You’re staying here.”
“Okay.” Obviously startled into compliance, Martin walked into Danny’s living room and dropped his bag by the end table, looking at Danny still with vague worry and suspicion, softened by that line creasing his brows, that made him look thoughtful and a little puzzled.
“I didn’t... I didn’t want to ask,” Martin explained as Danny continued to look at him. “In case you were, y’know, sick of having me around or anything.”
“You want a drink?”
“What?” Martin blinked incredulously at him. “Water, please. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard, I just don’t believe it.” Danny banged around in the kitchen, thrust a glass under the tap and watched it fill to overflowing. “I told you to come back any time you wanted. Why the hell would you think I’d be sick of having you around? You were only here for five days.”
Martin shrugged, automatically accepted the glass Danny handed to him. “I don’t...” He shook his head helplessly. “What are we, Danny?”
The question surprised Danny into rationality, startling because he’d never asked it of himself.
What are we, anyway?
And, put on the spot like that, he really couldn’t answer it. Boyfriends? Lovers? Just friends who happened to have slept together? None of them quite fit, like the way Danny couldn’t quite say if what he felt for Martin was friendship or love, or something else altogether – something too far outside the way he defined his world.
Weird, because he’d known Martin as an agent the entire time they’d known each other – well, almost, because he’d been “Victor Fitzgerald’s spoiled kid” first –, had seen the unswerving dedication he’d brought to his work, and Danny knew it was easy to think that “federal agent” was the sum total of Martin’s being.
But it wasn’t, because Martin liked sports and loved junk food, and if he wore the worst possible ties and shirts a size too big, it was because he’d seen how much appearances meant. And Martin liked it when Danny licked and kissed along the line of his neck and shoulder, and was ticklish under his ribs, and kissed like he wanted to drown in Danny’s mouth.
And you don’t just know things like that about people without some deeper sense of them, and Martin knew things about Danny, too – not only about his alcoholism, but about what had driven him to it, and he understood it, maybe not from experience, but from empathy, and that kind of knowing didn’t need love or boyfriendship or anything attached to it.
“We’re Martin and Danny,” he said at last.
He watched as Martin turned to set his glass down on the coffee table, and when Martin was facing him again, Danny could see understanding there, right there, in the sudden flicker of light chasing across his eyes.
Martin and Danny, and just the thought made Danny grin. Martin answered with a grin of his own, and like that the tension of the night and the past two weeks fell away. Martin told him about the investigation while Danny finished mangling the vegetables and rummaged through the refrigerator for salad dressing, and as they ate Danny told Martin about Mark and his fear about what would happen to him.
“He’ll be okay,” Martin said confidently. “He’s got you on his side.” And he’d looked at Danny, face serious for a moment before he’d said, “You looked after me, and I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with.”
“You got that right,” Danny said, smiling to take the edge off the criticism, and gathered up their plates. Martin followed him to the kitchen and stood over Danny’s shoulder while he dumped the dishes in the sink, so when Danny turned around to demand that he make himself useful and put the dressing away, he was right there, halfway in Danny’s arms, mouth angling up to Danny’s for a kiss.
And Danny decided that he had to be suffering memory loss, because in memory the intensity of Martin’s mouth against his was nothing like now, hot and insistent, burning away what was left of regret and control. Martin’s hands were at Danny’s hips, pulling the two of them together, and God, they were Martin and Danny, horny teenagers, making out against Danny’s kitchen counter.
“I got good news from the doctor,” Martin said, the words more gasps and sighs than anything else when he pulled away for breath. “My uh... my test results came in.”
“And?” Danny pulled back a bit, still couldn’t keep touching – Martin’s cheekbones, his jaw, the fluid, eloquent line of neck and shoulder.
“Clean, so far.” Martin smiled, kissed him again, the movement of his lips soft against Danny’s mouth. “I’ll need retesting in a couple months, but the doc thinks it’ll be okay.”
Another old fear resolved, and Danny pulled Martin closer, content for the moment to touch and reassure himself Martin was okay. And he was, solid and sturdy as always, skin hot and firm when Danny managed to get his hands under his t-shirt, moving pliantly against Danny’s body, fingers coming up to toy with the buttons on Danny’s shirt, mouth dipping down to kiss the skin just above his collar.
And Danny knew, knew, that he’d never get enough of this, and it probably meant that he had an addictive personality, because the taste of Martin, the feel and look of him, were things impressed indelibly in him now – the light in Martin’s hair, how it caught the reddish strands and turned them to copper, the darkness that swallowed up the bright blue of his eyes, the strange sort of grace in fingers fumbling at his shirt and pants, and oh dear God how Martin looked at him, as they fell backwards onto Danny’s bed, intense and wild and yet so still, a calm place in the heart of a storm.
They lay there for a moment, Martin breathing out short, impatient huffs of breath against Danny’s neck, fingers twining through his hair, a soothing, gentling motion. His body went still, the minutest tensing, and Danny opened his eyes to look at him.
“When we were talking in the hospital... You know, when I visited you?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t tell you... We’d been talking to Silverman, and he said – he said it wasn’t supposed to be a kidnapping,” Martin told him, the words shaking. “It was supposed to be a hit.”
Danny needed a breath to deal with that. Ten, more likely, or maybe there wasn’t enough air in the universe, in time, to process the enormity of what Martin had just said.
“Silverman said that Benson and the others had panicked... They didn’t want to kill the Deputy Director’s kid, not when there was a possibility of getting caught.” A soft laugh escaped him, no humor in it, warm and bitter against Danny’s shoulder. “I’ve never been so grateful to be a Fitzgerald in my life.”
Danny couldn’t laugh at that, couldn’t even think, beyond the repetition of the possibility that Martin could have died. Really and truly, because someone had wanted him dead bad enough to do this to him.
“God.” Had to think about second chances now, and how you weren’t supposed to fuck those up because they didn’t come around often at all. Danny moved closer to Martin, if that were possible, as though the shadows could snatch Martin away in a breath, or else he would vanish, and weirdly, Martin responded as though Danny were the one who needed to be kept from disappearing, draping one arm around him and drawing Danny in so his forehead rested just under Martin’s chin.
Crazy, thinking that he’d never had Martin until tonight, for keeps like kids used to say in grade school. They’d never had each other, always slipping or stumbling apart, dancers moving in different patterns but trying to learn how to move together. And here they were, together finally, a complication of limbs and blankets and breath, Danny – self-possessed, silk-smooth Danny Taylor – a mess in Martin’s arms and Martin a constant warmth against him, body wrapped around his.
They were Martin and Danny, tangled and difficult and contrary, simple at the heart of what they were.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin told him after a moment, words soft, not as powerful as the truth, written across his face, bright in the shadows of Danny’s room when Danny raised his eyes to see.
-end-
Post-fic notes: Thank you so so so much to everyone who's read and stuck with this thing; it means a lot that you all have been so supportive, and I'm so glad people have enjoyed the story. If you've stayed on the road this long, please let me know what you thought of the trip :)
In other news: Hockey is back! *weeps for joy* Also, for those who have not been in this world, HP6 is out this weekend, and while I won't be doing the midnight thing, I'll be sure to pick up my copy in good order. I really hope there'll be some nice political intrigue-type stuff, so I can exercise my Fudge-hate a little bit more. (God, I do hate that slimy, round little man.)
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @ gmail.com
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R. Minor swearing, heaping cupfuls of
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and very likely many other people.
Previous parts: 01; 02; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08; 09
Notes: The End.
CHAPTER TEN
Martin had been gone for two weeks, and the routine of the everyday had descended on Danny with oppressive force: up at five, in the office by six-thirty, court, home at seven on good days. His concussion had eventually faded into the occasional headache and twinge in his neck, and the bruise on his shoulder – the bruise over which Martin had lingered, face suffused with guilt and regret, the one other night they’d had together – had vanished.
Last night in the shower he’d noticed it, touched unmarked skin with some surprise, seeing one of the last reminders of Martin’s brief reentry into his life faded out. And then he’d gone to bed and tried to fall asleep, glanced over at where Martin would have been – which would have been sprawled over ninety percent of the mattress, because he was an impossible bed hog, and Danny would never have guessed that – and thought that maybe absence was reminder enough.
Agent Black had come around twice to interview him, and update him on Martin’s progress in Washington. Things were proceeding apace, Danny learned, most likely because Victor was not going to tolerate any bureaucratic delays in seeing Silverman and his conspirators lined up in front of a firing squad, or else staked out in the desert for the fire ants.
Mercifully, Black hadn’t said anything else about Martin and Danny, or Martin liking Danny, or even said much about anything not related to the investigation or the hell of New York traffic. Yet he didn’t need to, really – those dark eyes were entirely too knowing and assessing for Danny’s taste, as though Black were trying to decide whether he approved of Danny or not.
The guy hadn’t shot him, so Danny supposed that he’d passed.
His first day back at work – after a lecture from Tarney, who had received an edited version of events from Victor Fitzgerald but was still disinclined to look favorably on Danny missing work – saw him sitting in his office across from Mark Treharne. The boy sat slouched in his chair, hands folded, utterly silent as Danny explained the circumstances surrounding his father’s death. The foster family Mark had been placed with hadn’t been given the details, had only known that Rick Treharne had been shot, not the how, or the why of it.
And it didn’t help that Danny had to lie, could only say that a police officer had been close enough to intervene, because no one was supposed to know why exactly an FBI agent had been escorting Danny to work that morning. Mark listened to him as he stumbled through his explanation, played nervously with his glasses for a moment once Danny finished, pushing them up and down on his nose.
“So my dad’s... My dad’s really dead?” he asked at last, like he wasn’t sure believing it would be a good thing, but looking at Danny like the words were gospel truth.
“Yeah, Mark. I’m sorry.” And that apology didn’t even begin to cover what he wished he could say to the kid. Don’t feel guilty, if you’re glad he’s gone, he wanted to say. Don’t ever feel that way; it’ll kill you better than he was doing. Trust me, I know. But he wasn’t the kid’s guidance counselor – that was why social services had child psychologists, to deal with this sort of thing and put it in complicated words.
“No... that’s okay.” Mark’s gaze bounced around Danny’s office, flickering from his law diploma to his department patches to the photo on his desk, lighting on Danny briefly before taking off again – file drawers, back to the diploma, the spider plant on its hook, the shelves stuffed full of legal texts, the photo again. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Your father’s will lists your aunt Lucy as the family member who’ll get custody of you, but you’ll probably have to stay in social services until the paperwork gets cleared up and they make sure you’re okay to live with her.”
“Okay. Aunt Lucy won’t be so bad, I guess.” Mark sighed, a wavery and resigned breath, and Danny knew what was going through his mind because he’d once had those thoughts himself – being invisible, one of a thousand faceless kids fallen into the void, into limbo, nothing stable or permanent anymore, dependent on people who might claim him by blood but never by love.
“It’ll work out in the end,” he said, as much for himself as for the boy, trying to convince himself and Mark of the truth of it. “You’ve got my number, so call any time you need to.”
“Yeah, I got your card with me..” Mark fumbled in the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out a battered business card to show him, as though Danny had reason to doubt he was telling the truth. “Thanks, Mr. Taylor.” He stuffed the card back in and stood up, shook Danny’s hand, palm sweaty and nervous, and left.
Danny watched him go, wanting to call him back, but couldn’t make himself. Through the small window looking out into the lobby he saw Mark waiting in front of the elevator, rocking back and forth on his heels, glancing around at the plants and paintings and the other people. Could see himself, suddenly, sitting on the uncomfortable plastic bench in the hospital, swinging sneakered feet, looking at the strangers gathered around him in the waiting room.
He thought briefly of the first case worker he’d ever had, Miss Susan. Weird how he could never remember her last name – he didn’t even know if he ever really knew it, because she’d introduced herself as Miss Susan and Miss Susan she had remained. All the other ones had faded out with the years, as he’d become older and increasingly difficult, a bright kid chafing resentfully against foster homes and hand-me-downs, but he could still see her there, round face under a cap of red hair, wearing an eye-blindingly bright tunic and heavy jewelry.
“You make the right decision, Daniel,” she’d told him, when she’d found him the first of his many foster homes. “Remember that.”
He’d said yes ma’am, and gone off to live with the D’Angelos, and it had taken him a while, but he’d made that decision. And he’d fucked it up big, but tried to put it right again. He wasn’t sure if he had, yet, but he was trying.
Lost Martin once, almost, and now Martin was gone again, and it occurred to him suddenly that maybe Danny Taylor had gotten too many second chances in his life, and this wasn’t going to be one of them.
Night came with depressing speed during the winter, inescapable and heavy despite the perpetual light coming from Manhattan, like a weight barely supported by wavering arms. By five-thirty the sun had vanished behind the buildings, by six the only light remaining was artificial. Danny walked from the subway to his apartment, hating the oppressiveness of it – further proof that he’d never get the Florida out of him, because even in winter the sun was there, not hidden behind perpetual night or the everlasting blankets of clouds.
Once in his apartment, he turned on every light he could find and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, glanced at the asthmatic heater in his living room before turning it up. If he couldn’t have the real thing, he could at least pretend for an evening. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe he didn’t have a touch of seasonal-affective disorder, or if maybe his recent depression wasn’t Martin-related, and God both of those things sounded incredibly pop-psychological and girly.
Huffing to himself and ordering his brain to get over its hangups, Danny wandered into the kitchen to scare up something to eat, and was disappointed to realize that both his food supply and his exhaustion meant it was going to be salad again. Just as he was pulling random ingredients out of the refrigerator – lettuce, celery, carrots that had seen better days – the phone rang.
He stared at it resentfully as it rang twice more, then picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“Hey, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Danny slouched back against the counter, listened to the silence on the other end of the line. “Uh, what’s up?” Had to wince at that, and wonder what the hell it was about the Fitzgeralds that put him off his stride.
“Not much. I hope you’re well?” Victor’s tone was dry, much like Martin’s, which most likely meant he was amused – whether by the question or the painfully evident fact that Danny was uncomfortable, Danny couldn’t tell. “I wanted to call to... ah, that is, I don’t believe I thanked you for everything you did for Martin.”
“It’s no problem,” he said quickly, too quickly maybe, had to start shredding lettuce because the nervous energy in him was too much for him to be still. The possibility that Victor had locked Martin up in some secret underground facility occurred to him – it would explain why Martin hadn’t come back, hadn’t called or even emailed him, for Christ’s sake. “How’s everything in Washington?” Couldn’t ask about Martin, because he didn’t want to know that Martin had fallen back into work again and had forgotten him.
“Everything’s just very busy, though not going as quickly as I would want.” Frustration now, and Danny grinned to himself. “I would like very much for Martin to take leave after this is all said and done, but I don’t think he will.”
“And you want me to convince him?” Danny began chopping an already-abused carrot.
“You’re very good at making Martin do things he doesn’t want to do,” Victor said, a sigh evident in the words. “To be honest, I’m not sure if this investigation would have gone as quickly as it has, without your assistance.”
“No one makes Martin do things he doesn’t want to do,” Danny told him, and he heard Victor’s resigned huff of agreement. As to the second, he stayed quiet; if Victor believed he owed something to Danny’s supposed ability to get Martin to cooperate, Danny certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion. “Anyway, you still owe me a pizza.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He winced and moved on to the celery, splitting the stalks with more force than was probably necessary. “Uh, look... What’s up with Martin, anyway? I haven’t heard from him in a couple of weeks.”
Dead silence greeted this announcement.
“Really?” The word was unabashedly bewildered when Victor finally spoke. “I – well, I apologize then. I must have misunderstood. I thought you knew that Martin was going to be in New York. He, ah, gave me the impression...” Victor trailed off, and this was the most disconcerted Danny had ever heard the man.
Victor apologizing would be rich, if Danny weren’t so upset. He took a deep, controlling breath, and made himself say, “Well, he might have had a change of plans,” he said, reminding himself with every heartbeat of his calmness and rationality. “You should give him a ring on his cell, just to check.”
“Of course.” Fears of a repeat abduction skipped through Danny’s awareness, and he knew Victor was probably thinking the same thing. “I’ll call you once I get a hold of him.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
They exchanged farewells, and when Danny hung up the phone he stared at it a moment, trying to decide whether to give into resignation or throw the thing across the room.
His conversation with Victor hadn’t soothed him; instead, Danny found himself more agitated and irritated than he’d been since Mark had left his office that morning. Where the hell is he and why hasn’t he called? Distractedly, he returned to cutting vegetables, swore when the knife missed a section of red pepper and scored his finger instead.
“Son of a fucking – ”
The intercom buzzed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” Danny slammed the knife down on the countertop and stalked over to the intercom. Jammed down the button – with his newly-cut finger – and almost shouted further obscenities into the speaker before controlling himself and settling on a more moderate, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Danny.”
He waited, impatient and angry and terrified, wishing he had the guts to go downstairs and let Martin in himself. But he couldn’t, could only wait and pace until he heard Martin’s light, quick step in the hallway outside his door.
Soft and hesitant knocking, and he was at the door almost before he could register it, yanking it open to see Martin standing there, wearing a fleece jacket and jeans and a shy, awkward smile, overnight bag in his hand.
“Hey, Danny,” he said again.
“Martin.” And he had no idea what happened to his articulateness. Could only stand and stare now, and wonder what to do, because how the hell did you greet a person you’d slept with twice but had been a friend for years? A hug? Handshake? Kiss on the cheek? Fist to the jaw? Looking at Martin, all four seemed viable options.
“My flight was delayed... I tried to call a bit ago, but the line was busy.” Martin shifted from foot to foot, eyes anxious and wary now under Danny’s scrutiny. “I wanted to see if you’d like to go for dinner or something.” He hefted his suitcase. “I came right here, didn’t check in or anything.”
“Why the hell would you get a hotel?” Danny said testily, rolling his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, come in and put that down. You’re staying here.”
“Okay.” Obviously startled into compliance, Martin walked into Danny’s living room and dropped his bag by the end table, looking at Danny still with vague worry and suspicion, softened by that line creasing his brows, that made him look thoughtful and a little puzzled.
“I didn’t... I didn’t want to ask,” Martin explained as Danny continued to look at him. “In case you were, y’know, sick of having me around or anything.”
“You want a drink?”
“What?” Martin blinked incredulously at him. “Water, please. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I heard, I just don’t believe it.” Danny banged around in the kitchen, thrust a glass under the tap and watched it fill to overflowing. “I told you to come back any time you wanted. Why the hell would you think I’d be sick of having you around? You were only here for five days.”
Martin shrugged, automatically accepted the glass Danny handed to him. “I don’t...” He shook his head helplessly. “What are we, Danny?”
The question surprised Danny into rationality, startling because he’d never asked it of himself.
What are we, anyway?
And, put on the spot like that, he really couldn’t answer it. Boyfriends? Lovers? Just friends who happened to have slept together? None of them quite fit, like the way Danny couldn’t quite say if what he felt for Martin was friendship or love, or something else altogether – something too far outside the way he defined his world.
Weird, because he’d known Martin as an agent the entire time they’d known each other – well, almost, because he’d been “Victor Fitzgerald’s spoiled kid” first –, had seen the unswerving dedication he’d brought to his work, and Danny knew it was easy to think that “federal agent” was the sum total of Martin’s being.
But it wasn’t, because Martin liked sports and loved junk food, and if he wore the worst possible ties and shirts a size too big, it was because he’d seen how much appearances meant. And Martin liked it when Danny licked and kissed along the line of his neck and shoulder, and was ticklish under his ribs, and kissed like he wanted to drown in Danny’s mouth.
And you don’t just know things like that about people without some deeper sense of them, and Martin knew things about Danny, too – not only about his alcoholism, but about what had driven him to it, and he understood it, maybe not from experience, but from empathy, and that kind of knowing didn’t need love or boyfriendship or anything attached to it.
“We’re Martin and Danny,” he said at last.
He watched as Martin turned to set his glass down on the coffee table, and when Martin was facing him again, Danny could see understanding there, right there, in the sudden flicker of light chasing across his eyes.
Martin and Danny, and just the thought made Danny grin. Martin answered with a grin of his own, and like that the tension of the night and the past two weeks fell away. Martin told him about the investigation while Danny finished mangling the vegetables and rummaged through the refrigerator for salad dressing, and as they ate Danny told Martin about Mark and his fear about what would happen to him.
“He’ll be okay,” Martin said confidently. “He’s got you on his side.” And he’d looked at Danny, face serious for a moment before he’d said, “You looked after me, and I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with.”
“You got that right,” Danny said, smiling to take the edge off the criticism, and gathered up their plates. Martin followed him to the kitchen and stood over Danny’s shoulder while he dumped the dishes in the sink, so when Danny turned around to demand that he make himself useful and put the dressing away, he was right there, halfway in Danny’s arms, mouth angling up to Danny’s for a kiss.
And Danny decided that he had to be suffering memory loss, because in memory the intensity of Martin’s mouth against his was nothing like now, hot and insistent, burning away what was left of regret and control. Martin’s hands were at Danny’s hips, pulling the two of them together, and God, they were Martin and Danny, horny teenagers, making out against Danny’s kitchen counter.
“I got good news from the doctor,” Martin said, the words more gasps and sighs than anything else when he pulled away for breath. “My uh... my test results came in.”
“And?” Danny pulled back a bit, still couldn’t keep touching – Martin’s cheekbones, his jaw, the fluid, eloquent line of neck and shoulder.
“Clean, so far.” Martin smiled, kissed him again, the movement of his lips soft against Danny’s mouth. “I’ll need retesting in a couple months, but the doc thinks it’ll be okay.”
Another old fear resolved, and Danny pulled Martin closer, content for the moment to touch and reassure himself Martin was okay. And he was, solid and sturdy as always, skin hot and firm when Danny managed to get his hands under his t-shirt, moving pliantly against Danny’s body, fingers coming up to toy with the buttons on Danny’s shirt, mouth dipping down to kiss the skin just above his collar.
And Danny knew, knew, that he’d never get enough of this, and it probably meant that he had an addictive personality, because the taste of Martin, the feel and look of him, were things impressed indelibly in him now – the light in Martin’s hair, how it caught the reddish strands and turned them to copper, the darkness that swallowed up the bright blue of his eyes, the strange sort of grace in fingers fumbling at his shirt and pants, and oh dear God how Martin looked at him, as they fell backwards onto Danny’s bed, intense and wild and yet so still, a calm place in the heart of a storm.
They lay there for a moment, Martin breathing out short, impatient huffs of breath against Danny’s neck, fingers twining through his hair, a soothing, gentling motion. His body went still, the minutest tensing, and Danny opened his eyes to look at him.
“When we were talking in the hospital... You know, when I visited you?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t tell you... We’d been talking to Silverman, and he said – he said it wasn’t supposed to be a kidnapping,” Martin told him, the words shaking. “It was supposed to be a hit.”
Danny needed a breath to deal with that. Ten, more likely, or maybe there wasn’t enough air in the universe, in time, to process the enormity of what Martin had just said.
“Silverman said that Benson and the others had panicked... They didn’t want to kill the Deputy Director’s kid, not when there was a possibility of getting caught.” A soft laugh escaped him, no humor in it, warm and bitter against Danny’s shoulder. “I’ve never been so grateful to be a Fitzgerald in my life.”
Danny couldn’t laugh at that, couldn’t even think, beyond the repetition of the possibility that Martin could have died. Really and truly, because someone had wanted him dead bad enough to do this to him.
“God.” Had to think about second chances now, and how you weren’t supposed to fuck those up because they didn’t come around often at all. Danny moved closer to Martin, if that were possible, as though the shadows could snatch Martin away in a breath, or else he would vanish, and weirdly, Martin responded as though Danny were the one who needed to be kept from disappearing, draping one arm around him and drawing Danny in so his forehead rested just under Martin’s chin.
Crazy, thinking that he’d never had Martin until tonight, for keeps like kids used to say in grade school. They’d never had each other, always slipping or stumbling apart, dancers moving in different patterns but trying to learn how to move together. And here they were, together finally, a complication of limbs and blankets and breath, Danny – self-possessed, silk-smooth Danny Taylor – a mess in Martin’s arms and Martin a constant warmth against him, body wrapped around his.
They were Martin and Danny, tangled and difficult and contrary, simple at the heart of what they were.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin told him after a moment, words soft, not as powerful as the truth, written across his face, bright in the shadows of Danny’s room when Danny raised his eyes to see.
-end-
Post-fic notes: Thank you so so so much to everyone who's read and stuck with this thing; it means a lot that you all have been so supportive, and I'm so glad people have enjoyed the story. If you've stayed on the road this long, please let me know what you thought of the trip :)
In other news: Hockey is back! *weeps for joy* Also, for those who have not been in this world, HP6 is out this weekend, and while I won't be doing the midnight thing, I'll be sure to pick up my copy in good order. I really hope there'll be some nice political intrigue-type stuff, so I can exercise my Fudge-hate a little bit more. (God, I do hate that slimy, round little man.)