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post-4.16 .microficlet: Down, Down
Written so I can get to sleep tonight (*snort* like that will work) and thus be productive tomorrow.
Title: Down, Down
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: You know.
Rating/Warnings: PG? Angst, post-4.16
Disclaimers: You know who they belong to. Don't mock me.
Notes: No resolution, because there won't be one for at least a couple more episodes, and I'd like to leave the ending open. Also, as I said above, I just need to get this off my chest.
DOWN, DOWN
Down, down. Twelve floors down to the street and the elevator is too small for himself and his thoughts, the tension of the day and the fear of the night.
Now, he’s standing in the shadows outside the Javits building, one of the few places where the floodlights around the plaza can’t penetrate. Standing in the shadows, waiting. He’s patient, when he has to be.
He wonders if Martin’s noticed him watching for the past seven months. Probably not; Danny knows about selective perception, believing that if you don’t see someone, they won’t see you.
And has it really been that long? Seven months?
Danny pulls his coat more tightly around himself. It’s not very cold – not as cold as New York usually gets in February – but he shivers anyway. Cold and dark, not raining, though. Not like seven months ago, but so so close.
He’d seen the kidnapper sort of... flowing out of the shadows right behind Martin, and in that second – that less-than-second between thought and reflex – he’d seen Martin lying on the concrete again, blood on his shirt, blood on Danny’s hands.
Seven months since then.
Seven months of staying away and watching.
It had hurt, that distance. He knew some of it was his own fault, his automatic reaction to almost-loss – a reflex of its own – or maybe all of it, because he knows Martin well enough to know that Martin won’t ever ask for help. Won’t ever ask for anything, won’t ever admit to needing anything, and Danny can’t help but think that he’s fucked up tonight.
They’d taken separate cars back, Martin insisting on finishing clearing the scene by himself.
“Martin, you need to get your stuff and go home. I’ll talk to Jack, tell him you’ll be in tomorrow to finish the reports.”
“I’ve got it, Danny,” Martin had snapped, glaring at him, and God he’d looked terrible. “Just... just go okay? I’ll just be a few minutes.”
And he’d gone, though Danny supposed he shouldn’t have. Too easy, though, to take the escape that Martin offered.
Too easy to accept his explanation, that the fall down the stairs he’d taken in the Cassidy case had meant a refill on his prescription. Too easy to do any of the thousands of other things he’s done since the shooting that night. Too easy, he thinks bitterly, to stay away, to push Martin away, too easy to wait until everything in the world becomes impossible to do.
He wonders if Martin’s back up on the twelfth floor finishing paperwork. He probably is, even though Danny had talked to Jack and told him a bit of what had happened and Jack had said he’d send Martin home.
Danny waits anyway.
He’s patient, when he has to be.
Eventually Martin pushes his way through the main doors, and Danny knows it’s him – even in the shadows he knows, because he’d know Martin anywhere, because Martin’s shoulders are slumped and he’s moving slowly, everything that Martin shouldn’t be. Except he has been this way, too much lately.
Martin pauses and looks around, hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. Danny thinks that maybe Martin sees him, maybe – Martin seems to pause for a second before his gaze moves on – but maybe not. He hasn’t noticed for seven months that Danny’s been there in the shadows, watching.
Say something, Danny tells himself. Say something goddammit.
But he doesn’t, and maybe they’re already at that place, when this night will be the last thing that ever happens between them – Danny’s anger, his accusation, Martin snapping back, Danny leaving and Martin standing there alone.
Martin turns away, tugging his backpack over his shoulder as he goes.
Danny waits for a long moment before he pushes himself away from his wall and follows a safe distance behind, like he’s done for so long now.
For seven months, waiting.
Title: Down, Down
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: You know.
Rating/Warnings: PG? Angst, post-4.16
Disclaimers: You know who they belong to. Don't mock me.
Notes: No resolution, because there won't be one for at least a couple more episodes, and I'd like to leave the ending open. Also, as I said above, I just need to get this off my chest.
DOWN, DOWN
Down, down. Twelve floors down to the street and the elevator is too small for himself and his thoughts, the tension of the day and the fear of the night.
Now, he’s standing in the shadows outside the Javits building, one of the few places where the floodlights around the plaza can’t penetrate. Standing in the shadows, waiting. He’s patient, when he has to be.
He wonders if Martin’s noticed him watching for the past seven months. Probably not; Danny knows about selective perception, believing that if you don’t see someone, they won’t see you.
And has it really been that long? Seven months?
Danny pulls his coat more tightly around himself. It’s not very cold – not as cold as New York usually gets in February – but he shivers anyway. Cold and dark, not raining, though. Not like seven months ago, but so so close.
He’d seen the kidnapper sort of... flowing out of the shadows right behind Martin, and in that second – that less-than-second between thought and reflex – he’d seen Martin lying on the concrete again, blood on his shirt, blood on Danny’s hands.
Seven months since then.
Seven months of staying away and watching.
It had hurt, that distance. He knew some of it was his own fault, his automatic reaction to almost-loss – a reflex of its own – or maybe all of it, because he knows Martin well enough to know that Martin won’t ever ask for help. Won’t ever ask for anything, won’t ever admit to needing anything, and Danny can’t help but think that he’s fucked up tonight.
They’d taken separate cars back, Martin insisting on finishing clearing the scene by himself.
“Martin, you need to get your stuff and go home. I’ll talk to Jack, tell him you’ll be in tomorrow to finish the reports.”
“I’ve got it, Danny,” Martin had snapped, glaring at him, and God he’d looked terrible. “Just... just go okay? I’ll just be a few minutes.”
And he’d gone, though Danny supposed he shouldn’t have. Too easy, though, to take the escape that Martin offered.
Too easy to accept his explanation, that the fall down the stairs he’d taken in the Cassidy case had meant a refill on his prescription. Too easy to do any of the thousands of other things he’s done since the shooting that night. Too easy, he thinks bitterly, to stay away, to push Martin away, too easy to wait until everything in the world becomes impossible to do.
He wonders if Martin’s back up on the twelfth floor finishing paperwork. He probably is, even though Danny had talked to Jack and told him a bit of what had happened and Jack had said he’d send Martin home.
Danny waits anyway.
He’s patient, when he has to be.
Eventually Martin pushes his way through the main doors, and Danny knows it’s him – even in the shadows he knows, because he’d know Martin anywhere, because Martin’s shoulders are slumped and he’s moving slowly, everything that Martin shouldn’t be. Except he has been this way, too much lately.
Martin pauses and looks around, hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. Danny thinks that maybe Martin sees him, maybe – Martin seems to pause for a second before his gaze moves on – but maybe not. He hasn’t noticed for seven months that Danny’s been there in the shadows, watching.
Say something, Danny tells himself. Say something goddammit.
But he doesn’t, and maybe they’re already at that place, when this night will be the last thing that ever happens between them – Danny’s anger, his accusation, Martin snapping back, Danny leaving and Martin standing there alone.
Martin turns away, tugging his backpack over his shoulder as he goes.
Danny waits for a long moment before he pushes himself away from his wall and follows a safe distance behind, like he’s done for so long now.
For seven months, waiting.