![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[ficlet] Old Brown Shoe [PG Danny/Martin] 1.1
Title: Old Brown Shoe
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: PG? Not much to warn about, really.
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and other people. I can't tell you how much this depresses me.
Advertisements: sparkly shirts, sensible shoes
Notes: This sort of Occurred after I wrote a fic sentence for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frogy, in which Martin is confronted with a bit of sparkly clothing. By coincidence, I had been listening to George Harrison's "Old Brown Shoe" at the time, and I was compelled to keep exploring the theme. It's probably a good thing, considering the other stuff I'm working on at the moment is depressing :/
The original sentence is: "Absolutely no way," he tells Danny for the tenth time, but Danny isn't listening, just smirking and holding out this horrible, terrifying shirt, all shine and sparkle with metallic threads, way too hip for a guy like Martin Fitzgerald, and all Martin can do is sigh and accept his fate--and the shirt, and Danny's triumphant grin.
OLD BROWN SHOE
"I'm stepping out of this old brown shoe,
Baby, I'm in love with you.
I'm so glad you came here I won't be the same
Now that I'm with you."
-- George Harrison
He’s not sure why, but he’s fairly convinced that Danny’s asked him out. As in Asked him Out. On a Date.
He’s not sure why – that is, why he’s pretty sure and why Danny asked him out (if he indeed did). It’s just a feeling. Instinctual, if Martin Fitzgerald were the kind of person who paid attention to his instincts in the first place.
Maybe it’s to do with Danny asking him to go out, like, to an actual place that isn’t Danny’s or Martin’s apartment. Usually they hang out and watch a game and get take-out, and the strongest thing they have on tap is water. They alternately insult the players and each other, and in between talk about random things – anything except the current case, and that’s Danny’s house rule, no talking about the case during a game. And Martin’s fine with that, because it’s a Friend kind of thing to do, and considering how he and Danny got started, he’s pretty sure that ‘friend’ would have been considered a wildly optimistic outcome for the two of them.
Or maybe it’s to do with Danny waiting until Viv and Sam had left to ask. They don’t stand on ceremony with their reciprocal invitations to crash at one another’s place; whoever’s apartment is the least messy is the one they end up at after all is said and done. And Danny’s pretty casual, usually, and just asks, but this afternoon he’d given Viv a couple of meaningful looks until she’d gotten the hint, smirked at the both of them in her infuriating Viv way, and wandered into the break room saying something about coffee, even though she had a full cup in her hands.
Sam had taken a bit longer to get rid of, and Danny’s glares had reached paint-peeling intensity before she’d picked up her purse, given Martin one last look, and trailed away to Jack’s office.
“You want to go out tonight?” Danny had asked. “I know a place.”
Once Martin had been able to produce something more than a puzzled grunt, Danny had smirked at him, scribbled a name and address on a piece of paper and decreed that they would meet there at eight.
S&D. That’s the name of the place. S&D.
Standing in front of his mirror, Martin tries to imagine what S&D stands for. Sick & Depraved? Sadism & Domination? Sad & Desperate? Disturbed by this train of thought, he concentrates on his clothes.
Not like those thoughts are much better. He hates clothes. Not in a "let's all be nudists!" way, but a "I resent having to take time out of my day to pick them out" way. Usually he closes his eyes, reaches into his closet, and grabs whatever attaches itself to his hand, but tonight he feels compelled to make an effort.
After much debate he’d settled on jeans and a blue t-shirt. Leather jacket, the one he almost never wears because it makes him look strange to himself – a bit too cool, too sleek for him to be comfortable in it. Whenever he wears it, people look interested, look at him, and that kind of freaks him out, because he has no idea what they’re seeing.
Brown plaid is much safer. Like armor, turning aside scrutiny, forcing people to turn their attention elsewhere. Having people think he’s a nerd is much safer than having them think... whatever they think when they look speculative, stopping to take a second glance.
Not that it seems to have made much of a difference to Danny.
(If in fact Danny has asked him out.)
But, Martin asks himself, is he dressed too casually? S&D is on the opposite side of Queens from his apartment, otherwise he would have gone there to check it out before going to meet Danny. And he’s not sure when going to this place with Danny had become a certainty, but apparently it has.
It could be anything, knowing Danny. A strip club. A restaurant. A coffee shop. Martin fervently prays for it to be one of the last two as he pulls off his jacket and rummages in the closet for an oxford. He yanks it on and turns back to the mirror as he buttons it up all the way to the top.
He stares at himself critically for a moment before undoing the top two buttons.
Impulsively he undoes the rest, feeling a bit ridiculous at his earlier hesitation. It’s not like you’re showing cleavage, Fitzgerald, for Christ’s sake.
Before he can think too much about it, he pulls his jacket back on and stuffs his feet into a pair of shoes. Brown and sensible, and they go with everything, but the feeling of ridiculousness is back as he stares down at them.
I could call Danny, tell him I can’t make it.
The thought flashes through his mind, and it has its appeal. Thirty seconds of effort – pick up his cell, call Danny, say he’s contracted some contagious jungle fever and has been placed in isolation – and he’d be off the hook for the evening. No more wondering about what he was getting into, or what Danny wants out of all of this (if he wants anything), no more uncharacteristic Fitz agonizing over shoes and whether to button or not to button.
But then he remembers Danny’s expression from earlier.
He’d waited until he’d gotten rid of Viv and Sam, and when he’d turned back to Martin his eyes didn’t have the same old challenge in them, only a gentle and hesitant sort of questioning, like he’d been terrified of Martin’s answer.
That's it, then, he decides, and reaches for his keys.
* * *
His waffling means that he’s almost ten minutes late getting there. To his immense relief, S&D is actually a restaurant, and a nice-looking one, with tables on the sidewalk and a promising-looking menu. Martin’s been so anxious for the past four hours that he’s forgotten it’s almost two hours past dinner, and his stomach is sending up distress signals.
Unfortunately for it, he spies Danny staking out a table, metallic threads in his button-down shirt catching the scant light, but brighter than that by far is Danny’s smile as he catches Martin’s eye across the room.
And Martin, done with worrying and second-guessing, smiles back.
-end-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: PG? Not much to warn about, really.
Disclaimers: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and other people. I can't tell you how much this depresses me.
Advertisements: sparkly shirts, sensible shoes
Notes: This sort of Occurred after I wrote a fic sentence for
frogy, in which Martin is confronted with a bit of sparkly clothing. By coincidence, I had been listening to George Harrison's "Old Brown Shoe" at the time, and I was compelled to keep exploring the theme. It's probably a good thing, considering the other stuff I'm working on at the moment is depressing :/The original sentence is: "Absolutely no way," he tells Danny for the tenth time, but Danny isn't listening, just smirking and holding out this horrible, terrifying shirt, all shine and sparkle with metallic threads, way too hip for a guy like Martin Fitzgerald, and all Martin can do is sigh and accept his fate--and the shirt, and Danny's triumphant grin.
OLD BROWN SHOE
"I'm stepping out of this old brown shoe,
Baby, I'm in love with you.
I'm so glad you came here I won't be the same
Now that I'm with you."
-- George Harrison
He’s not sure why, but he’s fairly convinced that Danny’s asked him out. As in Asked him Out. On a Date.
He’s not sure why – that is, why he’s pretty sure and why Danny asked him out (if he indeed did). It’s just a feeling. Instinctual, if Martin Fitzgerald were the kind of person who paid attention to his instincts in the first place.
Maybe it’s to do with Danny asking him to go out, like, to an actual place that isn’t Danny’s or Martin’s apartment. Usually they hang out and watch a game and get take-out, and the strongest thing they have on tap is water. They alternately insult the players and each other, and in between talk about random things – anything except the current case, and that’s Danny’s house rule, no talking about the case during a game. And Martin’s fine with that, because it’s a Friend kind of thing to do, and considering how he and Danny got started, he’s pretty sure that ‘friend’ would have been considered a wildly optimistic outcome for the two of them.
Or maybe it’s to do with Danny waiting until Viv and Sam had left to ask. They don’t stand on ceremony with their reciprocal invitations to crash at one another’s place; whoever’s apartment is the least messy is the one they end up at after all is said and done. And Danny’s pretty casual, usually, and just asks, but this afternoon he’d given Viv a couple of meaningful looks until she’d gotten the hint, smirked at the both of them in her infuriating Viv way, and wandered into the break room saying something about coffee, even though she had a full cup in her hands.
Sam had taken a bit longer to get rid of, and Danny’s glares had reached paint-peeling intensity before she’d picked up her purse, given Martin one last look, and trailed away to Jack’s office.
“You want to go out tonight?” Danny had asked. “I know a place.”
Once Martin had been able to produce something more than a puzzled grunt, Danny had smirked at him, scribbled a name and address on a piece of paper and decreed that they would meet there at eight.
S&D. That’s the name of the place. S&D.
Standing in front of his mirror, Martin tries to imagine what S&D stands for. Sick & Depraved? Sadism & Domination? Sad & Desperate? Disturbed by this train of thought, he concentrates on his clothes.
Not like those thoughts are much better. He hates clothes. Not in a "let's all be nudists!" way, but a "I resent having to take time out of my day to pick them out" way. Usually he closes his eyes, reaches into his closet, and grabs whatever attaches itself to his hand, but tonight he feels compelled to make an effort.
After much debate he’d settled on jeans and a blue t-shirt. Leather jacket, the one he almost never wears because it makes him look strange to himself – a bit too cool, too sleek for him to be comfortable in it. Whenever he wears it, people look interested, look at him, and that kind of freaks him out, because he has no idea what they’re seeing.
Brown plaid is much safer. Like armor, turning aside scrutiny, forcing people to turn their attention elsewhere. Having people think he’s a nerd is much safer than having them think... whatever they think when they look speculative, stopping to take a second glance.
Not that it seems to have made much of a difference to Danny.
(If in fact Danny has asked him out.)
But, Martin asks himself, is he dressed too casually? S&D is on the opposite side of Queens from his apartment, otherwise he would have gone there to check it out before going to meet Danny. And he’s not sure when going to this place with Danny had become a certainty, but apparently it has.
It could be anything, knowing Danny. A strip club. A restaurant. A coffee shop. Martin fervently prays for it to be one of the last two as he pulls off his jacket and rummages in the closet for an oxford. He yanks it on and turns back to the mirror as he buttons it up all the way to the top.
He stares at himself critically for a moment before undoing the top two buttons.
Impulsively he undoes the rest, feeling a bit ridiculous at his earlier hesitation. It’s not like you’re showing cleavage, Fitzgerald, for Christ’s sake.
Before he can think too much about it, he pulls his jacket back on and stuffs his feet into a pair of shoes. Brown and sensible, and they go with everything, but the feeling of ridiculousness is back as he stares down at them.
I could call Danny, tell him I can’t make it.
The thought flashes through his mind, and it has its appeal. Thirty seconds of effort – pick up his cell, call Danny, say he’s contracted some contagious jungle fever and has been placed in isolation – and he’d be off the hook for the evening. No more wondering about what he was getting into, or what Danny wants out of all of this (if he wants anything), no more uncharacteristic Fitz agonizing over shoes and whether to button or not to button.
But then he remembers Danny’s expression from earlier.
He’d waited until he’d gotten rid of Viv and Sam, and when he’d turned back to Martin his eyes didn’t have the same old challenge in them, only a gentle and hesitant sort of questioning, like he’d been terrified of Martin’s answer.
That's it, then, he decides, and reaches for his keys.
His waffling means that he’s almost ten minutes late getting there. To his immense relief, S&D is actually a restaurant, and a nice-looking one, with tables on the sidewalk and a promising-looking menu. Martin’s been so anxious for the past four hours that he’s forgotten it’s almost two hours past dinner, and his stomach is sending up distress signals.
Unfortunately for it, he spies Danny staking out a table, metallic threads in his button-down shirt catching the scant light, but brighter than that by far is Danny’s smile as he catches Martin’s eye across the room.
And Martin, done with worrying and second-guessing, smiles back.
-end-