Entry tags:
.fic: Every Distance: PG13/R D/M 9/10
Title: Every Distance
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: PG13/Rish; language, maybe some smut, violence, angst, etc.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and very likely many other people.
Advertisements: Sequel/companion to A Long Time Coming, set during and after the events of ALTC 10.
Previous parts: 01; 02 ; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08
Notes: As the header indicates, I did end up needing one more chapter to wind things up. So there will be that, and the last installment of the universe, posted in the next couple of days. God, I can't believe this is almost done.
CHAPTER NINE
In his second year with Missing Persons he’d killed a man, had looked him right in the eye and shot him – one, two, three bullets and the man had been dead before he’d hit the floor. Internal Review and OPR had concluded that he’d shot Francisco Reyes in self-defense, and that was probably true in some way; Reyes had pulled a knife, and he could have attacked Vivian or him if Martin hadn’t put an end to things by shooting Reyes three times in the chest.
But the truth, the truth that Martin hid and Viv had assiduously avoided was that, in those moments after finding that little girl and nearly puking in the back room where Reyes had kept her, he’d been so angry. Blinded with it, sense and restraint burnt out by it, and he hadn’t needed any excuse at all to do what he’d done, and watching Reyes breathe his last had filled him with a savage satisfaction that had, looking back on it, seemed a strange and alien thing.
Much later he’d castigated himself for losing control like that and jeopardizing their investigation, and he regretted those things. But actually shooting Reyes? He couldn’t summon up regret for that, and that... that had frightened him badly, how emotion had swept him up, and even years later traces of the fury he’d felt, staring at that little girl and the bloody gauze strapped around her head, still lingered.
This was different, contemplating how to kill someone in the quiet of an office. Reyes’s apartment had smelled like alcohol and sweat, undertones of city dirt and the mustiness of neglect, and he’d been on edge back then, stepping into the home of a dangerous man.
Now he was sitting at a conference table, everything clean and neat, familiar, surrounded by his colleagues, and the adrenaline pulsing in the corner of his awareness felt wrong somehow, belonging more to the streets than a conference room. And none of them were talking about how to kill him, only how to capture him and get him into custody as soon as possible.
Martin appreciated that; Harris could have information on the case – and, in general, one less psychopath on the street, the better things would be. But he couldn’t find the thought of Harris behind bars as appealing as the thought of Harris dead. He caught himself reaching for the long-healed puncture wound on his arm and made himself drop his hand.
Sitting next to him, Danny glanced curiously in his direction, gaze flickering from Martin’s hand to his arm to Martin’s eyes. Mouthed you okay? and Martin gave him a short nod in reply. Danny didn’t look convinced, but this wasn’t the time to pursue it, surrounded by busily-plotting agents and a never-ending stream of information, and Martin supposed he should be paying attention.
“We’ve released Harris’s description to the media,” Nick was saying, voice a buzz that Martin had to strain to hear. “We’re asking to talk to him as a person of interest only; speculation that he’s linked to the bomb threats will take care of itself.”
“We’re counting on him to either hide out where he is or else go back to the Nassau apartment to collect evidence before trying to split,” Guerin added. “All city airports are under heightened alert, and there are checkpoints at all bridges. We have Logan Airport and Philly under heavy security as well, if he tries to go there.”
“You’re assuming he’s still in the city,” Danny pointed out. “He could have split any time after calling in the bomb threats.”
Martin listened impatiently as argument broke out around the table, most of the agents there more than a bit resentful that Danny was telling them how to do their jobs – that Danny was even there in the first place. To his right, Victor sat in stony, disapproving silence until the dispute wound down in half-finished accusations.
“If we’re done, gentlemen?” he asked icily. The other agents – even Nick, unflappable Nick – muttered apologies and yes sir, Deputy Director,’s, and an uneasy silence filtered in after the last.
“Thank you.” Victor’s tone had nothing of gratitude in it. “I’m expecting a status report from Bateman in ten minutes; until then I have to agree with Ag – with Mr. Taylor. Harris is very likely to have gotten out of town already, whether on his own or with the help of someone else. I suggest – ” He drew a tight, harassed breath and started issuing orders.
Agents left the room with their assignments, muttering subdued assents, and if any of them wanted to protest, those protests were swallowed down and replaced by the deference Martin was used to seeing exhibited by other people in the presence of his father. Within minutes, the last agent – Ramsay – had filed out and the only people remaining in the room were Victor, Danny, and Martin.
“Martin,” his father said quietly, “could you please go call Matt? We need to be sure there’s surveillance on Harris’s known associates.”
“Yeah.” He rose, unsteady and bracing himself on the desktop for a moment before straightening up. Saw Danny’s sharply-checked gesture – a reaching-out as though to offer support, curbed at the last moment – and Victor’s expression, confused and looking like he wanted to say something, before it vanished behind familiar neutrality again.
He was dimly aware of Danny following, then speeding up to walk alongside him, but the thunder of his blood in his ears was too loud, and his thoughts too swift to do any more than register that Danny was there with him. Working on automatic pilot now as he pulled out his cell and dialed Matt’s direct line.
“Black.” Tired and scratchy, deeper than usual; Matt was probably operating on less sleep than Martin. He could imagine Matt’s desk after a forty-eight hour shift: piled high with energy bar wrappers and littered with empty bottles of sports drink, even his Cornhuskers memorabilia stuffed into unobtrusive corners. He kept a mat under his desk for stretching and calisthenics, which had mystified Martin until Matt had told him that warm-up routines kept him from going crazy, or collapsing.
“Hey, it’s Martin.”
He ran through Victor’s orders, and Matt updated him; surveillance hadn’t reported any unusual activity, and Harris hadn’t shown anywhere. Frustration spiked through him at Matt’s news, and he couldn’t keep all of it from Matt, who knew him too well.
“We’ll find him, Martin,” Matt said quietly, so quietly Martin could hear the squeak of his chair as Matt twirled it back and forth, which he would do when deep in thought.
“Yeah.” He collapsed into his own desk chair, glancing over at Danny, who was pulling another chair over from a center conference table. “Um... you still going to see your mother?”
“Don’t know if I’ll get a chance to this year,” Matt told him. “Not until after this is over, anyway.” No bitterness, even though he’d gone to Lincoln every year on the anniversary of his brother’s death. “The Deputy Director’s got us all busting our asses on this one case, you know.” Joking and tired, and not really funny at all.
“Maybe your dad will go.”
“Not going to happen.” Matt sighed and the phone crackled with exasperated static. “Look, Ed’s on my ass... I got to go, okay?”
“Yeah. Goodbye, Matt.”
“’Bye, Martin.”
The line went dead and Martin collapsed back in his chair, walked it around to look at Danny, who was watching him quietly, soft eyes not hiding his concern or silent assessment. And Danny looked a lot more together now than he did earlier in the day, composed and resolute, and Martin realized abruptly how close they’d come to being lost that morning.
The edge of anger he’d carried with him from the conference room had lost its keenness, cooling into the practicality that would take him through this, and still the temptation was there, to close himself off and rely only on himself until all this was said and done. Habit, and it was safe – and not only safe, compelling, because he’d lived with this habit for over thirty years and he knew enough of himself to know he couldn’t change that easily.
But Danny was here, reminding Martin of what he’d promised Danny and himself. To do the hard thing and lean on someone else.
“It’s almost over,” he told Danny quietly. Had to fiddle with his cell phone to distract himself.
“Almost,” Danny agreed, leaning back in his chair so that it creaked softly and looking at Martin over interlaced fingers. “You look like you’re wanting to get out of here.”
Of course he was, and he had to acknowledge it. Danny sighed, smiled a bit, and shook his head, muttering something about some things never changing no matter what. The teasing helped a bit, and that was something else to learn – how to laugh at himself.
“Martin?”
He glanced up sharply; Victor had materialized on the other side of Martin’s desk, still-open cell phone in one hand, the other hand covering the speaker.
“Dad?”
“Bateman, calling from the field.” Victor shifted in place and glanced out the window as though searching for inspiration, and Martin had never seen his father this rattled. “They spotted a man matching Harris’s description entering the apartment building. They’re under orders to watch him, not engage; backup is on its way.”
Martin’s heart skipped violently. They found him. God, they found him and he’s alive.
“S.W.A.T.?” he made himself ask.
“Yes, and I’ll be going along myself. I don’t want to take any chances with this.” Victor turned away and spoke quickly and quietly into the phone, no doubt repeating orders, nodded in response to some unheard reply and clicked it shut.
“I want to ride along, Dad.”
“Martin, that’s – ” His father’s voice rose sharply before he checked it and lowered it again. “That’s ridiculous. And possibly suicidal.”
Familiar anger spiked through him, hearing that tone again – sharper now, maybe, because he’d thought he and his father had worked past this. He wasn’t suicidal. He was angry. Angry and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, and that was the best way to get killed.
“I don’t want to do anything,” he added swiftly, before either Victor or Danny could say another word about what he was asking. “I’ll stay with the Bureau cars – controlled environment.”
“There’s no such thing as a controlled environment at an active crime scene,” Danny pointed out.
“The whole Javits building was a crime scene for months, and we didn’t know it,” Martin snapped.
“Comparatively,” Victor said repressively, “we were in a controlled situation with Silverman – and we knew going in that Silverman wouldn’t be able to try anything. Do you honestly think that Harris is going to hesitate if he gets a chance to kill you, after what he’s done?”
And in all honesty, Martin had to admit that Harris probably wouldn’t.
“Go down to the lockers and get changed – bulletproof vest, field jacket, everything; I don’t want you standing out,” Victor said at last. “Don’t make me regret this, Martin.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
Victor spun on his heel and left, negotiating his way swiftly through the desks and the knots of other agents. His voice rose over the low murmur of conversation, more orders, and Ramsay, Guerin, and several others followed him into a conference room. Those remaining glanced over at Danny and Martin; Danny returned their examination with supreme indifference, standing up and gesturing for Martin to follow him.
“Lockers are the next floor up,” Martin said to Danny’s back. Hated staring at the squared, determined set of Danny’s shoulders and he hurried to catch up.
“Yeah.”
They said nothing else as Martin led them to the armory – he had to go in by himself – to pick up his vest and a few other things. Backup weapon, heavy and cool in his hand, and extra ammunition tucked into a pocket, and when he got out and began to walk toward the locker room to change Danny still didn’t say anything else. Not a condemning silence – God, no, not like before, that terrible and unexpected distance – but like Danny was trying to work things out in his own head, and was unwilling to share until he did.
“I have to do this, Danny,” he said quietly, head bowed as he pretended to examine the straps on his vest. “It’s driving me crazy, staying here.” And I trust you, but I don’t trust them. I need to see this with my own eyes.
“I know,” Danny said. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, barely there before flickering away again, like he understood more than what Martin was saying – and, Martin reflected, he probably did. “Wouldn’t expect you not to.”
Martin jerked his head up, faltering a little as Danny’s words registered.
“You know I won’t be able to come with – they’re not going to let a civilian along for the ride on this one.” Danny took one of Martin’s hands in his, the pad of his index finger playing across Martin’s knuckles, and Danny was watching this with a strange, desperate sort of fascination. “’S weird... kind of like old times, when one of us was stuck in the office and the other was out in the field, huh?”
“Different, though.” Because now we’re together, but you’ll be stuck here, and they won’t let you go. No Jack to threaten you or me, and then we’d go do it anyway.
“Not so much.” Pressure firmer now, coaxing Martin to relax, and he found his body responding, leaning a bit into Danny’s body, breathing in the warmth and scent of him. “You know, when you got shot... I was fucking terrified. Couldn’t do anything except try to keep you from bleeding out.” Slight smile now, not really humorous, but glinting in Danny’s eyes all the same. “I don’t do the whole helpless thing very well.”
“I’ll be careful,” Martin said roughly.
“You’d better,” Danny replied. “Now, come on... We need to get you ready to go.”
* * *
He really hated bulletproof vests – too heavy and restrictive, even though the newer models were supposed to be light and to allow easy movement, chafing at his t-shirt and pulling the fabric uncomfortably across his skin. A reminder of the frailty of human flesh, maybe, proof that fearlessness and determination could only take a person – even him – so far before the body and its weakness took over.
Danny had helped him with it, even though Martin could have taken care of it himself, tightening the Velcro until it almost cut off Martin’s breathing, staring fixedly at the black material as though searching out microscopic flaws, hands lingering on the straps, fingers moving with that smooth, synthetic sound over the Kevlar on Martin’s chest.
Had kissed him in the privacy of the locker room, not caring who might walk in or who might watch, mouth hot and desperate and working Martin’s open, and they’d stood there trading kisses for a minute before Danny had pulled himself back together and rechecked Martin’s vest one last time.
And, as if that weren’t shield enough, he was standing behind a barrier of cars and S.W.A.T. vans, almost as anonymous as the other agents with him – FBI field jacket and baseball cap, sunglasses to cut the glare of the unexpected afternoon sun.
He stood by his father’s right shoulder, caught suddenly by the fact that this was how they’d stood together two weeks gone, Victor issuing last-second orders before turning to him and saying, Are you ready, Martin?
Yeah, Dad. Let’s go.
Trust – that had needed trust, to walk into the Federal building by his father’s side, and he wondered if maybe that had been the first time in his life, that he’d trusted Victor to stand beside him like that.
Had to trust him now, and he glanced at Victor, standing there in a heavy navy blue FBI parka, walkie-talkie in hand, speaking quietly and urgently into it.
The roads were blocked off to the north, and a large, seething mass of reporters waited beyond the buffer zone, a dim clamor even at this distance. Martin sensed the invisible presence of snipers on the roof, the tense expectation of the S.W.A.T. team standing a little way down from the knot of Bureau cars, the bomb squad next to them.
Full colors for Derek Harris, he thought sarcastically, checking the safety of his service weapon.
He heard the blare and crackle of static of the chief negotiator’s megaphone coming to life, the bored, rote suggestion that Derek Harris stand down and surrender himself before things became violent or ended badly.
“Harris doesn’t have a problem with that,” Martin muttered. “He wants it to end violently.”
“You’re right,” Victor said quietly, and turned away to whisper orders into his radio again.
“Suicide by cop... Tell the snipers not to shoot if he comes out.”
“What?”
“He’s going to come out with a weapon; he knows we’ve got snipers ordered to take a shot if they get him in the clear.” Absolutely certain, and he hadn’t studied these men and others like them for the past ten years not to know this. Desperate people who didn’t mind the thought of dying, and he’d been like that, ready to do what he had to, even if it meant his life. “He wants to die, Dad. Change your orders – ”
But even as he spoke, the main door of the apartment building – battered, patched-together wood and tarnished brass – opened, a dark and yawning mouth. Martin fumbled for his weapon, pulling it clumsily from its holster.
Victor’s hand landed on the barrel, pushing it down and away.
“Not yet, Martin.” Calm, not cold – calm, and Martin steadied himself to match his father.
Harris appeared, no gun visible, hands loose and open at his side. Not a tall man, dark-haired and beard still neatly trimmed, head turning as he looked over the assembly of police cars, the black hulk of the S.W.A.T van.
And that was him, beyond any doubt. That was the man right there, one of those who had taken him and held him captive.
“Get down on your knees!” Sharp bark of command from the negotiator now. “Hands over and behind your head.”
Obediently Harris knelt on the cold, wet pavement.
And Martin’s hands were locked around his gun, and he wanted to move, was desperate to move, but he was frozen as Harris kept looking around, and dark eyes – so familiar, though unremembered – fastened on his own.
Harris raised his arms slowly, deliberately, and the cuff of his sweatshirt slid down his left forearm to expose delicate wiring running along his wrist, and the tiny black device – no larger than a lighter, thin and very nearly indiscernible – tucked into his watchband.
“A detonator,” Victor whispered, going for his radio. “He’s fucking got a detonator.”
-tbc.-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: PG13/Rish; language, maybe some smut, violence, angst, etc.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and very likely many other people.
Advertisements: Sequel/companion to A Long Time Coming, set during and after the events of ALTC 10.
Previous parts: 01; 02 ; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08
Notes: As the header indicates, I did end up needing one more chapter to wind things up. So there will be that, and the last installment of the universe, posted in the next couple of days. God, I can't believe this is almost done.
CHAPTER NINE
In his second year with Missing Persons he’d killed a man, had looked him right in the eye and shot him – one, two, three bullets and the man had been dead before he’d hit the floor. Internal Review and OPR had concluded that he’d shot Francisco Reyes in self-defense, and that was probably true in some way; Reyes had pulled a knife, and he could have attacked Vivian or him if Martin hadn’t put an end to things by shooting Reyes three times in the chest.
But the truth, the truth that Martin hid and Viv had assiduously avoided was that, in those moments after finding that little girl and nearly puking in the back room where Reyes had kept her, he’d been so angry. Blinded with it, sense and restraint burnt out by it, and he hadn’t needed any excuse at all to do what he’d done, and watching Reyes breathe his last had filled him with a savage satisfaction that had, looking back on it, seemed a strange and alien thing.
Much later he’d castigated himself for losing control like that and jeopardizing their investigation, and he regretted those things. But actually shooting Reyes? He couldn’t summon up regret for that, and that... that had frightened him badly, how emotion had swept him up, and even years later traces of the fury he’d felt, staring at that little girl and the bloody gauze strapped around her head, still lingered.
This was different, contemplating how to kill someone in the quiet of an office. Reyes’s apartment had smelled like alcohol and sweat, undertones of city dirt and the mustiness of neglect, and he’d been on edge back then, stepping into the home of a dangerous man.
Now he was sitting at a conference table, everything clean and neat, familiar, surrounded by his colleagues, and the adrenaline pulsing in the corner of his awareness felt wrong somehow, belonging more to the streets than a conference room. And none of them were talking about how to kill him, only how to capture him and get him into custody as soon as possible.
Martin appreciated that; Harris could have information on the case – and, in general, one less psychopath on the street, the better things would be. But he couldn’t find the thought of Harris behind bars as appealing as the thought of Harris dead. He caught himself reaching for the long-healed puncture wound on his arm and made himself drop his hand.
Sitting next to him, Danny glanced curiously in his direction, gaze flickering from Martin’s hand to his arm to Martin’s eyes. Mouthed you okay? and Martin gave him a short nod in reply. Danny didn’t look convinced, but this wasn’t the time to pursue it, surrounded by busily-plotting agents and a never-ending stream of information, and Martin supposed he should be paying attention.
“We’ve released Harris’s description to the media,” Nick was saying, voice a buzz that Martin had to strain to hear. “We’re asking to talk to him as a person of interest only; speculation that he’s linked to the bomb threats will take care of itself.”
“We’re counting on him to either hide out where he is or else go back to the Nassau apartment to collect evidence before trying to split,” Guerin added. “All city airports are under heightened alert, and there are checkpoints at all bridges. We have Logan Airport and Philly under heavy security as well, if he tries to go there.”
“You’re assuming he’s still in the city,” Danny pointed out. “He could have split any time after calling in the bomb threats.”
Martin listened impatiently as argument broke out around the table, most of the agents there more than a bit resentful that Danny was telling them how to do their jobs – that Danny was even there in the first place. To his right, Victor sat in stony, disapproving silence until the dispute wound down in half-finished accusations.
“If we’re done, gentlemen?” he asked icily. The other agents – even Nick, unflappable Nick – muttered apologies and yes sir, Deputy Director,’s, and an uneasy silence filtered in after the last.
“Thank you.” Victor’s tone had nothing of gratitude in it. “I’m expecting a status report from Bateman in ten minutes; until then I have to agree with Ag – with Mr. Taylor. Harris is very likely to have gotten out of town already, whether on his own or with the help of someone else. I suggest – ” He drew a tight, harassed breath and started issuing orders.
Agents left the room with their assignments, muttering subdued assents, and if any of them wanted to protest, those protests were swallowed down and replaced by the deference Martin was used to seeing exhibited by other people in the presence of his father. Within minutes, the last agent – Ramsay – had filed out and the only people remaining in the room were Victor, Danny, and Martin.
“Martin,” his father said quietly, “could you please go call Matt? We need to be sure there’s surveillance on Harris’s known associates.”
“Yeah.” He rose, unsteady and bracing himself on the desktop for a moment before straightening up. Saw Danny’s sharply-checked gesture – a reaching-out as though to offer support, curbed at the last moment – and Victor’s expression, confused and looking like he wanted to say something, before it vanished behind familiar neutrality again.
He was dimly aware of Danny following, then speeding up to walk alongside him, but the thunder of his blood in his ears was too loud, and his thoughts too swift to do any more than register that Danny was there with him. Working on automatic pilot now as he pulled out his cell and dialed Matt’s direct line.
“Black.” Tired and scratchy, deeper than usual; Matt was probably operating on less sleep than Martin. He could imagine Matt’s desk after a forty-eight hour shift: piled high with energy bar wrappers and littered with empty bottles of sports drink, even his Cornhuskers memorabilia stuffed into unobtrusive corners. He kept a mat under his desk for stretching and calisthenics, which had mystified Martin until Matt had told him that warm-up routines kept him from going crazy, or collapsing.
“Hey, it’s Martin.”
He ran through Victor’s orders, and Matt updated him; surveillance hadn’t reported any unusual activity, and Harris hadn’t shown anywhere. Frustration spiked through him at Matt’s news, and he couldn’t keep all of it from Matt, who knew him too well.
“We’ll find him, Martin,” Matt said quietly, so quietly Martin could hear the squeak of his chair as Matt twirled it back and forth, which he would do when deep in thought.
“Yeah.” He collapsed into his own desk chair, glancing over at Danny, who was pulling another chair over from a center conference table. “Um... you still going to see your mother?”
“Don’t know if I’ll get a chance to this year,” Matt told him. “Not until after this is over, anyway.” No bitterness, even though he’d gone to Lincoln every year on the anniversary of his brother’s death. “The Deputy Director’s got us all busting our asses on this one case, you know.” Joking and tired, and not really funny at all.
“Maybe your dad will go.”
“Not going to happen.” Matt sighed and the phone crackled with exasperated static. “Look, Ed’s on my ass... I got to go, okay?”
“Yeah. Goodbye, Matt.”
“’Bye, Martin.”
The line went dead and Martin collapsed back in his chair, walked it around to look at Danny, who was watching him quietly, soft eyes not hiding his concern or silent assessment. And Danny looked a lot more together now than he did earlier in the day, composed and resolute, and Martin realized abruptly how close they’d come to being lost that morning.
The edge of anger he’d carried with him from the conference room had lost its keenness, cooling into the practicality that would take him through this, and still the temptation was there, to close himself off and rely only on himself until all this was said and done. Habit, and it was safe – and not only safe, compelling, because he’d lived with this habit for over thirty years and he knew enough of himself to know he couldn’t change that easily.
But Danny was here, reminding Martin of what he’d promised Danny and himself. To do the hard thing and lean on someone else.
“It’s almost over,” he told Danny quietly. Had to fiddle with his cell phone to distract himself.
“Almost,” Danny agreed, leaning back in his chair so that it creaked softly and looking at Martin over interlaced fingers. “You look like you’re wanting to get out of here.”
Of course he was, and he had to acknowledge it. Danny sighed, smiled a bit, and shook his head, muttering something about some things never changing no matter what. The teasing helped a bit, and that was something else to learn – how to laugh at himself.
“Martin?”
He glanced up sharply; Victor had materialized on the other side of Martin’s desk, still-open cell phone in one hand, the other hand covering the speaker.
“Dad?”
“Bateman, calling from the field.” Victor shifted in place and glanced out the window as though searching for inspiration, and Martin had never seen his father this rattled. “They spotted a man matching Harris’s description entering the apartment building. They’re under orders to watch him, not engage; backup is on its way.”
Martin’s heart skipped violently. They found him. God, they found him and he’s alive.
“S.W.A.T.?” he made himself ask.
“Yes, and I’ll be going along myself. I don’t want to take any chances with this.” Victor turned away and spoke quickly and quietly into the phone, no doubt repeating orders, nodded in response to some unheard reply and clicked it shut.
“I want to ride along, Dad.”
“Martin, that’s – ” His father’s voice rose sharply before he checked it and lowered it again. “That’s ridiculous. And possibly suicidal.”
Familiar anger spiked through him, hearing that tone again – sharper now, maybe, because he’d thought he and his father had worked past this. He wasn’t suicidal. He was angry. Angry and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, and that was the best way to get killed.
“I don’t want to do anything,” he added swiftly, before either Victor or Danny could say another word about what he was asking. “I’ll stay with the Bureau cars – controlled environment.”
“There’s no such thing as a controlled environment at an active crime scene,” Danny pointed out.
“The whole Javits building was a crime scene for months, and we didn’t know it,” Martin snapped.
“Comparatively,” Victor said repressively, “we were in a controlled situation with Silverman – and we knew going in that Silverman wouldn’t be able to try anything. Do you honestly think that Harris is going to hesitate if he gets a chance to kill you, after what he’s done?”
And in all honesty, Martin had to admit that Harris probably wouldn’t.
“Go down to the lockers and get changed – bulletproof vest, field jacket, everything; I don’t want you standing out,” Victor said at last. “Don’t make me regret this, Martin.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
Victor spun on his heel and left, negotiating his way swiftly through the desks and the knots of other agents. His voice rose over the low murmur of conversation, more orders, and Ramsay, Guerin, and several others followed him into a conference room. Those remaining glanced over at Danny and Martin; Danny returned their examination with supreme indifference, standing up and gesturing for Martin to follow him.
“Lockers are the next floor up,” Martin said to Danny’s back. Hated staring at the squared, determined set of Danny’s shoulders and he hurried to catch up.
“Yeah.”
They said nothing else as Martin led them to the armory – he had to go in by himself – to pick up his vest and a few other things. Backup weapon, heavy and cool in his hand, and extra ammunition tucked into a pocket, and when he got out and began to walk toward the locker room to change Danny still didn’t say anything else. Not a condemning silence – God, no, not like before, that terrible and unexpected distance – but like Danny was trying to work things out in his own head, and was unwilling to share until he did.
“I have to do this, Danny,” he said quietly, head bowed as he pretended to examine the straps on his vest. “It’s driving me crazy, staying here.” And I trust you, but I don’t trust them. I need to see this with my own eyes.
“I know,” Danny said. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, barely there before flickering away again, like he understood more than what Martin was saying – and, Martin reflected, he probably did. “Wouldn’t expect you not to.”
Martin jerked his head up, faltering a little as Danny’s words registered.
“You know I won’t be able to come with – they’re not going to let a civilian along for the ride on this one.” Danny took one of Martin’s hands in his, the pad of his index finger playing across Martin’s knuckles, and Danny was watching this with a strange, desperate sort of fascination. “’S weird... kind of like old times, when one of us was stuck in the office and the other was out in the field, huh?”
“Different, though.” Because now we’re together, but you’ll be stuck here, and they won’t let you go. No Jack to threaten you or me, and then we’d go do it anyway.
“Not so much.” Pressure firmer now, coaxing Martin to relax, and he found his body responding, leaning a bit into Danny’s body, breathing in the warmth and scent of him. “You know, when you got shot... I was fucking terrified. Couldn’t do anything except try to keep you from bleeding out.” Slight smile now, not really humorous, but glinting in Danny’s eyes all the same. “I don’t do the whole helpless thing very well.”
“I’ll be careful,” Martin said roughly.
“You’d better,” Danny replied. “Now, come on... We need to get you ready to go.”
He really hated bulletproof vests – too heavy and restrictive, even though the newer models were supposed to be light and to allow easy movement, chafing at his t-shirt and pulling the fabric uncomfortably across his skin. A reminder of the frailty of human flesh, maybe, proof that fearlessness and determination could only take a person – even him – so far before the body and its weakness took over.
Danny had helped him with it, even though Martin could have taken care of it himself, tightening the Velcro until it almost cut off Martin’s breathing, staring fixedly at the black material as though searching out microscopic flaws, hands lingering on the straps, fingers moving with that smooth, synthetic sound over the Kevlar on Martin’s chest.
Had kissed him in the privacy of the locker room, not caring who might walk in or who might watch, mouth hot and desperate and working Martin’s open, and they’d stood there trading kisses for a minute before Danny had pulled himself back together and rechecked Martin’s vest one last time.
And, as if that weren’t shield enough, he was standing behind a barrier of cars and S.W.A.T. vans, almost as anonymous as the other agents with him – FBI field jacket and baseball cap, sunglasses to cut the glare of the unexpected afternoon sun.
He stood by his father’s right shoulder, caught suddenly by the fact that this was how they’d stood together two weeks gone, Victor issuing last-second orders before turning to him and saying, Are you ready, Martin?
Yeah, Dad. Let’s go.
Trust – that had needed trust, to walk into the Federal building by his father’s side, and he wondered if maybe that had been the first time in his life, that he’d trusted Victor to stand beside him like that.
Had to trust him now, and he glanced at Victor, standing there in a heavy navy blue FBI parka, walkie-talkie in hand, speaking quietly and urgently into it.
The roads were blocked off to the north, and a large, seething mass of reporters waited beyond the buffer zone, a dim clamor even at this distance. Martin sensed the invisible presence of snipers on the roof, the tense expectation of the S.W.A.T. team standing a little way down from the knot of Bureau cars, the bomb squad next to them.
Full colors for Derek Harris, he thought sarcastically, checking the safety of his service weapon.
He heard the blare and crackle of static of the chief negotiator’s megaphone coming to life, the bored, rote suggestion that Derek Harris stand down and surrender himself before things became violent or ended badly.
“Harris doesn’t have a problem with that,” Martin muttered. “He wants it to end violently.”
“You’re right,” Victor said quietly, and turned away to whisper orders into his radio again.
“Suicide by cop... Tell the snipers not to shoot if he comes out.”
“What?”
“He’s going to come out with a weapon; he knows we’ve got snipers ordered to take a shot if they get him in the clear.” Absolutely certain, and he hadn’t studied these men and others like them for the past ten years not to know this. Desperate people who didn’t mind the thought of dying, and he’d been like that, ready to do what he had to, even if it meant his life. “He wants to die, Dad. Change your orders – ”
But even as he spoke, the main door of the apartment building – battered, patched-together wood and tarnished brass – opened, a dark and yawning mouth. Martin fumbled for his weapon, pulling it clumsily from its holster.
Victor’s hand landed on the barrel, pushing it down and away.
“Not yet, Martin.” Calm, not cold – calm, and Martin steadied himself to match his father.
Harris appeared, no gun visible, hands loose and open at his side. Not a tall man, dark-haired and beard still neatly trimmed, head turning as he looked over the assembly of police cars, the black hulk of the S.W.A.T van.
And that was him, beyond any doubt. That was the man right there, one of those who had taken him and held him captive.
“Get down on your knees!” Sharp bark of command from the negotiator now. “Hands over and behind your head.”
Obediently Harris knelt on the cold, wet pavement.
And Martin’s hands were locked around his gun, and he wanted to move, was desperate to move, but he was frozen as Harris kept looking around, and dark eyes – so familiar, though unremembered – fastened on his own.
Harris raised his arms slowly, deliberately, and the cuff of his sweatshirt slid down his left forearm to expose delicate wiring running along his wrist, and the tiny black device – no larger than a lighter, thin and very nearly indiscernible – tucked into his watchband.
“A detonator,” Victor whispered, going for his radio. “He’s fucking got a detonator.”
-tbc.-
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Well, Mr. Fitzgerald is mortal, like the rest of us (though sometimes he doesn't seem to think so *g*)...
Just food for thought :)
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OMG, this whole thing is just coming to a head and I think I might explode for waiting. It's just so.... omg. OMG. See, you've made me all incoherent and I can't.... ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Okay, then. Calm now.
Love this chapter. Love how Danny just gets that Martin *had* to do this. Love that Martin *had* to do it. God, this is so fucked up angsty and painful and tense and it's fucking brilliant. ::loves::
Also, the kiss made me all melty. Heh. God, I love intense Martin.
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Me, too. *fans self* And it makes me very happy that so many other people like intense!Martin too.
! No, you can't leave it there.
Should have the last chapter done tomorrow :)
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(Anonymous) 2005-09-25 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)I'm glad to see that Martin's being sensible about it all now, cant wait to read the last chapter!
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I'm glad to see that Martin's being sensible about it all now
That makes two of us :)
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So beautiful. *melts*
You evil cliffhanger woman you!!! Looking forward to the next part.
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You evil cliffhanger woman you!!!
*innocent look*
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Missy
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Martin is flesh and blood, so he very definitely can *g* Just wanted to point that out... *beam*
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This chapter was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect--and a cliffhanger! AHHH! I hate you. except i really don't because you rock, but please, please update soon?
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and a cliffhanger! AHHH!
:)
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Oh no! Noooooooooooooooo!!!!
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But at least I'm not making you wait for months on end before posting the conclusion.
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That's very nice by you, my dear *huggles*
Can I bribie you to post the update real quick?
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*pets* It'll all be over soon :)
who Martin is
I just love Martin... he's so WASPy and conflicted and, I think, a lot angrier than he gives himself credit for being.
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Seriously, though...this is soooo good. It's the most romantic thing in the world that Danny helped him put on his Kevlar....I have to stop now, I'm all verklempt.
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Anything you say? *considers this*
And I really like that word, verklempt. Verklempt, verklempt, verklempt.
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