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.crack!fic: It's Alive - D/M 1.3
Title: It's Alive
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M. In a strange and disturbing way.
Ratings/Warnings: PG13-ish?
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to other people. Alas.
Advertisements: crack!fic written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekosmuse's International Manny Month Challenge.
Notes: That there are multiple chapters in this thing is a sign of psychosis, I think. Deeply, deeply crack!fic. Look for no sense here.
CHAPTER ONE
Two days ago, FBI offices
“Okay, people, our new case is Dr. Karl von Birkenstock, fifty-three, eminent brain surgeon and research scientist. He’s been missing at least for the past two days, his assistant… uh, Igor, called in when he failed to report for a lobotomy.” Jack Malone stalked around the table, handing out folders and copies of their missing person’s photograph, along with instructions.
“Sam, I’d like you to go to Birkenstock’s apartment and talk to the neighbors. Viv, you and I are going to the hospital to interview his staff. Danny, Martin, a man matching Birkenstock’s description was seen and heard laughing maniacally around those old, creepy warehouses down in the Bronx. Go check him out.”
“You want me and Martin to go to a deserted warehouse in the Bronx?” Danny Taylor looked up from his contemplation of Birkenstock’s picture. “Without backup? Isn’t that against procedure or something?”
Jack’s face took on an expression deeply suggestive of annoyance or intestinal distress, and so Danny wisely dropped his protests, grabbed Martin’s arm, and hauled him out of the office.
* * *
Martin beat Danny to the driver’s seat, which meant Danny spent the ride clinging surreptitiously to his armrest; Martin drove like the streets of New York were the Indy 500 raceway, and what kind of stress Martin had to be suppressing to drive like this, Danny didn’t know.
They pulled up to the warehouses, which were predictably old and creepy, and got out. The day, which had started out promising and sunny, grew dark and cold, and Danny swore he could hear thunder in the distance.
“Hey, I think the main bay doors are open,” Martin said, nodding at the door and drawing his gun. “I’ll go first.”
Danny did not protest this, because today Martin’s pants were unusually flattering and he was wearing his FBI windbreaker, showing off said pants (and thus his ass) to good advantage. Obediently he checked his gun and followed behind Martin. Very close behind Martin.
So close that when Martin stopped in the doorway Danny bumped into him. Martin glared at him over his shoulder and motioned for silence as he peered into the dark recesses of the warehouse. Looking over his shoulder, Danny could see little more than shadows and more shadows – until a pale flash of movement caught his eye.
“Dr. von Birkenstock?” Martin called tentatively. “This is the FBI.”
“Come een!” cooed a heavily-accented voice. “Come een!” it repeated, closer now, and when Danny squinted, the indeterminate pale blot resolved into a lab coat and a head of wiry, electrified white hair.
Martin’s grip on his gun tightened as he moved into the warehouse. “Are you okay, Doctor?”
“Vunderful,” the voice of Dr. von Birkenstock said. “Come een, come een!”
Danny kept close to Martin’s back as they stepped inside, glanced around in the hope of finding a light. He didn’t see anything, only more shadows, the neon letters on Martin’s jacket and the doctor’s white coat the only things visible in the dark.
And then the thin slice of light provided by the warehouse door vanished.
And that was the last that Danny knew, except for the thin thread of high-pitched cackling somewhere nearby.
Yesterday, St. Vincent's hospital
“I said,” Jack Malone was saying in his most authoritative, ‘do not fuck with me’ tone, “I want to know how my agents are doing.”
“Ah ah uhh um…” The doctor glanced between Jack on one side and Vivian on the other and gave in. “They seem to be okay physically, but there are some irregularities with their EEG scans. I should really keep them around to be sure.”
“What kind of irregularities?” Jack barked.
“I don’t know!” the doctor wailed. “Just irregularities.”
“Can they walk? Dress themselves? Do they know who the president is?”
“Yesss…”
“Look, I can’t lose two agents again. The last time that happened, it was a disaster. I want them released ASAP.”
The doctor nodded and scurried away, and just like that* Jack had two orderlies wheeling a rather dazed-looking Danny and Martin out of the hospital.
Today
The first clue Martin had that something was seriously Not Right was the fact that he was not in his own bedroom, and he couldn’t remember how he got here.
He had vague memories of the warehouse, but they were fuzzy and mostly concerned with how nice Danny’s body heat had felt so close against his back. The door, that was pretty much it; they were at the door and he was calling for Dr. von Birkenstock, and then nothing.
Also, his head was killing him. Was he hung over? Didn’t feel like it, aside from the headache.
And where the fuck was he?
* * *
In another place, Danny was having pretty much the same experience: strange bedroom, headache, all of it. He sat up carefully, lest his head fall off his shoulders as it was threatening to do, and looked around.
Whoever’s bedroom this was, they had no sense of interior design at all. The combination of browns, beiges, and blues in different patterns was weirdly reminiscent of some of Martin’s ties.
Speaking of Martin, where was he? Had they been taken captive? But the bedroom door was open, and when he lifted his hands he realized that he wasn’t restrained.
His hands.
He looked again.
Waitaminnit.
* * *
Martin was lying very still in bed, trying to decide what to do. Obviously whoever he’d ended up with had good taste, everything dark wood and deep colors, and the pillows were very comfortable.
And that was kind of weird, because the bed was pretty big and one half of it was still made up, the pillows stacked neatly atop one another, as though he’d been the only person sleeping in it all night.
The phone rang, and his head sent up an instant, thunderous protest.
He glanced out of the bedroom door, and not hearing anyone else moving, reached to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” God, his voice sounded weird.
“Hey, Danny? It’s Viv.”
-tbc.-
* = Well, really not just like that, but for the purposes of expediting the plot, it happened just like that.
In other fic news: I'll try to get the rest of this transcribed and posted over the weekend. And, um, there might be one last fic in the ALTC universe; in feedback for "Blue River"maygra had some salient points I feel I need to address in order to sleep well at night.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M. In a strange and disturbing way.
Ratings/Warnings: PG13-ish?
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to other people. Alas.
Advertisements: crack!fic written for
nekosmuse's International Manny Month Challenge.Notes: That there are multiple chapters in this thing is a sign of psychosis, I think. Deeply, deeply crack!fic. Look for no sense here.
CHAPTER ONE
Two days ago, FBI offices
“Okay, people, our new case is Dr. Karl von Birkenstock, fifty-three, eminent brain surgeon and research scientist. He’s been missing at least for the past two days, his assistant… uh, Igor, called in when he failed to report for a lobotomy.” Jack Malone stalked around the table, handing out folders and copies of their missing person’s photograph, along with instructions.
“Sam, I’d like you to go to Birkenstock’s apartment and talk to the neighbors. Viv, you and I are going to the hospital to interview his staff. Danny, Martin, a man matching Birkenstock’s description was seen and heard laughing maniacally around those old, creepy warehouses down in the Bronx. Go check him out.”
“You want me and Martin to go to a deserted warehouse in the Bronx?” Danny Taylor looked up from his contemplation of Birkenstock’s picture. “Without backup? Isn’t that against procedure or something?”
Jack’s face took on an expression deeply suggestive of annoyance or intestinal distress, and so Danny wisely dropped his protests, grabbed Martin’s arm, and hauled him out of the office.
Martin beat Danny to the driver’s seat, which meant Danny spent the ride clinging surreptitiously to his armrest; Martin drove like the streets of New York were the Indy 500 raceway, and what kind of stress Martin had to be suppressing to drive like this, Danny didn’t know.
They pulled up to the warehouses, which were predictably old and creepy, and got out. The day, which had started out promising and sunny, grew dark and cold, and Danny swore he could hear thunder in the distance.
“Hey, I think the main bay doors are open,” Martin said, nodding at the door and drawing his gun. “I’ll go first.”
Danny did not protest this, because today Martin’s pants were unusually flattering and he was wearing his FBI windbreaker, showing off said pants (and thus his ass) to good advantage. Obediently he checked his gun and followed behind Martin. Very close behind Martin.
So close that when Martin stopped in the doorway Danny bumped into him. Martin glared at him over his shoulder and motioned for silence as he peered into the dark recesses of the warehouse. Looking over his shoulder, Danny could see little more than shadows and more shadows – until a pale flash of movement caught his eye.
“Dr. von Birkenstock?” Martin called tentatively. “This is the FBI.”
“Come een!” cooed a heavily-accented voice. “Come een!” it repeated, closer now, and when Danny squinted, the indeterminate pale blot resolved into a lab coat and a head of wiry, electrified white hair.
Martin’s grip on his gun tightened as he moved into the warehouse. “Are you okay, Doctor?”
“Vunderful,” the voice of Dr. von Birkenstock said. “Come een, come een!”
Danny kept close to Martin’s back as they stepped inside, glanced around in the hope of finding a light. He didn’t see anything, only more shadows, the neon letters on Martin’s jacket and the doctor’s white coat the only things visible in the dark.
And then the thin slice of light provided by the warehouse door vanished.
And that was the last that Danny knew, except for the thin thread of high-pitched cackling somewhere nearby.
Yesterday, St. Vincent's hospital
“I said,” Jack Malone was saying in his most authoritative, ‘do not fuck with me’ tone, “I want to know how my agents are doing.”
“Ah ah uhh um…” The doctor glanced between Jack on one side and Vivian on the other and gave in. “They seem to be okay physically, but there are some irregularities with their EEG scans. I should really keep them around to be sure.”
“What kind of irregularities?” Jack barked.
“I don’t know!” the doctor wailed. “Just irregularities.”
“Can they walk? Dress themselves? Do they know who the president is?”
“Yesss…”
“Look, I can’t lose two agents again. The last time that happened, it was a disaster. I want them released ASAP.”
The doctor nodded and scurried away, and just like that* Jack had two orderlies wheeling a rather dazed-looking Danny and Martin out of the hospital.
Today
The first clue Martin had that something was seriously Not Right was the fact that he was not in his own bedroom, and he couldn’t remember how he got here.
He had vague memories of the warehouse, but they were fuzzy and mostly concerned with how nice Danny’s body heat had felt so close against his back. The door, that was pretty much it; they were at the door and he was calling for Dr. von Birkenstock, and then nothing.
Also, his head was killing him. Was he hung over? Didn’t feel like it, aside from the headache.
And where the fuck was he?
In another place, Danny was having pretty much the same experience: strange bedroom, headache, all of it. He sat up carefully, lest his head fall off his shoulders as it was threatening to do, and looked around.
Whoever’s bedroom this was, they had no sense of interior design at all. The combination of browns, beiges, and blues in different patterns was weirdly reminiscent of some of Martin’s ties.
Speaking of Martin, where was he? Had they been taken captive? But the bedroom door was open, and when he lifted his hands he realized that he wasn’t restrained.
His hands.
He looked again.
Waitaminnit.
Martin was lying very still in bed, trying to decide what to do. Obviously whoever he’d ended up with had good taste, everything dark wood and deep colors, and the pillows were very comfortable.
And that was kind of weird, because the bed was pretty big and one half of it was still made up, the pillows stacked neatly atop one another, as though he’d been the only person sleeping in it all night.
The phone rang, and his head sent up an instant, thunderous protest.
He glanced out of the bedroom door, and not hearing anyone else moving, reached to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” God, his voice sounded weird.
“Hey, Danny? It’s Viv.”
-tbc.-
* = Well, really not just like that, but for the purposes of expediting the plot, it happened just like that.
In other fic news: I'll try to get the rest of this transcribed and posted over the weekend. And, um, there might be one last fic in the ALTC universe; in feedback for "Blue River"
maygra had some salient points I feel I need to address in order to sleep well at night.
no subject
no subject
God, I love B-movies.