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.fic: La Familia - D/M (PG13/R) 1.3/4
Title: La Familia
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R? Mention of sensitive material (physical abuse of children in later chapters)
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Advertisements: Part of the ALTC/Distance series, taking place about one year after "Biscayne." Previous parts are:
Sons; ALTC; Every Distance; Sons & Lovers; Blue River; Biscayne. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 09 (Word Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).
Notes: After a lot of uncertainty, I'm dipping back into the ALTC-verse, as it is a happy place and I like it.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bornofchaos had a request for another fic (in progress at the moment) involving Danny's heritage, and her request, along with a drabble written for smeggin_amyk got me to get this off the back burner.
"La Familia" is mostly Danny-centric, with some speculations on his family history, though some of Martin's comes up incidentally.
CHAPTER ONE
There was this kid in Danny’s high school, Pedro. Pedro something. Gonzales maybe, a couple years older than him, a senior, but they’d been in the same chemistry class because Pedro’d had to retake it so he could graduate.
Ramirez, maybe. Danny honestly doesn’t remember. But that’s not the point.
The point is that Danny shared a lab desk with the kid for most of the semester, and the only thing he knew about Pedro other than his name was that the kid was as gay as the day is long, and not because Pedro had told him, but because Danny knew somehow that he was, teenager’s instinct for anything different. Pedro would sometimes come in, with mumbled explanations for their teacher about the bruises decorating his face, and slide into his seat next to Danny without saying a word or even looking at him.
Once, Danny had seen a group of boys beating the hell out of Pedro, a knot of them in the far corner of the baseball diamond and Danny hiding out under the bleachers, watching them through the struts. They were far away, but Danny could still hear bright, cruel laughter and one of the redneck bastards saying something about fucking wetback queers, then punctuating the insult with a kick to Pedro’s ribs.
And Pedro fought back. One of the kids staggered and fell down clutching his face, and his friends paused, like they honestly weren’t expecting that to happen. And probably they weren’t, because the smart thing to do when you’re outfaced three to one is either give up and take it or run away, and they’d expected Pedro to do one of those two things.
But Pedro fought and fought until he couldn’t fight anymore, until the baseball coach finally saw what was going on, ran out to break it up and call the paramedics, because Pedro wasn’t moving. The only time Pedro moved after that, that Danny could see, was when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics were trying to get him onto the stretcher without jarring him too badly. Even from his hiding place, Danny could hear Pedro scream, this terrible, ragged sound that he still hasn’t forgotten.
Pedro didn’t appear in chemistry class that next Monday, or the one after that. When he finally came back two weeks later, arm in a cast and bandages showing through the rips in his jeans, he didn’t look at Danny or at anyone else. Just slid into his seat and ignored the teacher’s questions, and Danny had to do all the experiments for the rest of the semester because Pedro’s cast made him clumsy and knocked over the test tubes.
The lesson Danny took away from all of this wasn’t to fight back and be proud of who you are, but to do everything you can to hide it – and if you can’t hide it, tell the other kid he’s the cocksucking fag and punch him in the nose.
* * *
Even now he never really thought about his childhood a lot, and he figured he was allowed the denial.
When Danny was thirteen and realized he was too much like Pedro, he’d prayed to God to please, please let him be normal. His family at the time, the Fosters (Eileen Foster would say “We’re a Foster family!” and then bray like a goddamned donkey, which had driven Danny crazy), were reaching the limits of their tolerance with him anyway at that point. Eileen and George had belonged to some kind of evangelical church, and it was bad enough that Danny was even nominally Catholic, so if he’d even breathed a word about being gay he would have ended up like Pedro. Maybe worse, because George had played defense for U Miami, and had been at least five times Danny’s size.
He’d never seen Rafi except one time when he was fourteen, through a glass window at the juvenile detention facility. The Fosters had refused to allow Rafi to see him, save that once – that had been one of the conditions of them taking him in – and at the time, he’d been grateful for that, one of the few things they’d gotten right.
And that year, the fourteenth year of his life, had been the rift, when everything had changed; he’d gotten caught with some of George’s private stash, and George’s fist in his eye was the reason he couldn’t ever look at gin again (despite his otherwise indiscriminate taste for alcohol), and not long before his fifteenth birthday, he’d traded sex for a joint from a drunk college kid on South Beach.
Told George and Eileen about doing that the day Family Services moved him in with the Vegas, only grinned when George told him he was going to burn in hell.
He still couldn’t pinpoint the day he’d stolen his first taste of beer, when a few illicit sips had become a whole bottle, when he’d graduated to vodka and tequila, when he’d found himself keeping a step ahead of the cops. When he’d accepted the fact that alcohol would always be a part of his life, in one way or another.
Now, twenty years or more down the road he found things changing again, stepping into a small office in a Manhattan non-profit organization for exploited children.
A change from Camelio, Barrett, and Brown – though, come to think of it, his first law firm had been the change; this, what he was walking into now, was familiar. He’d told Martin, and he’d made a joke about ‘once a public servant, always a public servant,’ though he’d wondered to himself if private practice had taken him too far away from what had always been familiar to him. In a way, his inherited plywood desk with the bad oak veneer and the military-green file cabinets seemed like home – had been home, Danny supposed, remembering that his social workers had had offices much like his. Martin had helped him move in, laughing about needing a decorator and offering his services, which Danny had declined.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Rafi reappeared.
“Rafi’s parole hearing is coming up two weeks from now, on the thirteenth.”
“Already?” He winced, knowing what that sounded like, but the attorney didn’t comment.
What the attorney did say was, “He’s been a model prisoner, nothing on his record, and he’s completed rehab…” She trailed on for a while longer, ending with, “I would like to ask you to testify for him in front of the parole board.”
Danny agreed automatically, forcing the words past the knot of habitual resentment and anger that always tied him up whenever he thought about his brother, and he wondered if that would ever change.
“I know Rafi would appreciate that very much,” the attorney – Denning? Jennings? Something like that – said. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor.”
“Yeah,” Danny said hoarsely. Confirmed the date and time, not really hearing the attorney’s second round of thanks.
Things had changed, Danny told himself fiercely as he hung up, running a shaking hand over his face. He’d talked with Sylvia and Nickie a few times, but hadn’t mentioned Martin, unsure still about how Sylvia would react. Rafi had changed, if what Sylvia had said was true, and the memory of the terror of that night, when he’d found Rafi with that needle and makeshift tourniquet, said as much as well.
And now Rafi had a daughter, Rafaela, who was four and noisy, and Danny wondered how the hell Rafi was going to take care of two kids. He wondered how the hell Sylvia had done it on a nurse’s wages and the little money Rafi could give her. He’d tried to help her out when he could, but Sylvia was proud and not about to take any money from her guilt-stricken brother-in-law, and Danny could understand that.
His concentration was shot for the day, and he left early, ghosting past the secretaries and the other attorneys without being detected. Not that home was much better, the apartment too small for his thoughts and Martin wasn’t there, so he left again, trailed around the neighborhood, running pointless errands – picking up cereal for Martin, a light bulb for his bedside lamp. And he felt utterly ridiculous, staring down at the bags in his arms, thinking that his brother was getting out of prison, maybe, and he was buying... stuff.
Anxiety chewed at him as he walked back to his apartment, reflexive glance up to the bedroom window – the light was on, brightness subdued through the blinds – told him that Martin had returned. A prickle of worry raced up his spine, even as he tried to convince himself that everything would be okay, and why the hell was he worrying? Martin knew about Rafi, had known ever since Sylvia had called that morning years ago, saying Rafi had gone missing.
His apartment, not really. Theirs, two names on the lease, bigger, with an office big enough to accommodate Martin’s obsession with technology and some of Danny’s casework. Their furniture, a hodgepodge of Martin’s and his and some stuff they’d bought together.
“Hey,” was Martin’s typical, laconic greeting as Danny shouldered his way through the door. Martin took one of the bags from him, face brightening as he saw the Frosted Flakes, fading when he took a closer look at Danny. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Danny said, voice rough with confusion and uncertainty, and goddammit this was Martin, and why did he find it so hard to believe in him now?
“Right.” Martin’s expression was patently disbelieving. He set the bags down on the counter with an emphatic thump, not even bothering to pick through them to see what Danny had bought, his usual ritual. He pulled himself up to sit beside them, fingers laced together and legs dangling, a carelessness Danny recognized as feigned. “Danny, come on. What’s up?”
“I... Rafi’s up for parole,” Danny said, the words coming despite his efforts to keep them back. “His case worker called today... His hearing’s set for two weeks from today.”
Martin nodded thoughtfully, leaning back against the refrigerator. Danny glanced desperately around the kitchen, not wanting to look at Martin’s face, afraid of what he’d see there.
“You want me to testify for him? I mean, I was there... I know what happened.”
“I – you’d do that?” He swung back to look at Martin, who was watching him closely, worry and confusion written clearly in Martin’s eyes, worry and concern for him. No judgment – when had there ever been, and why the hell was he still looking for it? – only a wordless, searching look, and what Martin was looking for, Danny didn’t know.
“Of course I would.” Martin paused, tilting his head just so, worry sharpening into Fitzgeraldian assessment. “You look like you don’t believe me.”
Danny couldn’t say anything to that, because what Martin said was true. Or, true in a way because he wanted to believe Martin and knew he should, because Martin hadn’t ever backed away from him for anything. He remembered Martin’s words with sudden, uncomfortable clarity – I’m not used to other people wanting to help me...But that wasn’t a good enough reason not to trust you – and wondered if he’d been doing the same thing to Martin, holding out, holding back. No, no wondering... he was.
He didn’t answer, only looked at Martin, helpless to keep anything off his face, had to let Martin look and see for himself.
Whatever Martin saw there had him off the countertop in a heartbeat.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Fierce, unflinching and Danny looked away. “I was there, Danny. I know what happened.”
He did. He’d read Rafi his rights and booked him himself, shepherded him through processing and into holding. You shouldn’t be your own brother’s arresting officer, he’d said, and added something about procedure and propriety – two things they’d never been concerned with – something about how the D.A. would look on anything that compromised the investigation. Danny had only heard the first part, nodded in gratitude and said –
This is Martin Fitzgerald; he’s a friend, he’ll take care of you.
Rafi’s expression had been dull, unseeing; Danny doubted if Martin had ever really registered in Rafi’s consciousness.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Danny said quickly, into a silence he’d allowed to go on for too long. “I can take care of it myself.”
Martin’s mouth firmed. “I do want to, Danny.” He paused, regarding Danny silently for a moment, seemed like he wanted to say something, but looked away.
“Just let me do this for you, okay?” he said at last.
“Yeah.”
The relief on Martin’s face hurt, like he honestly hadn’t expected Danny to agree, but the smile he turned on Danny a heartbeat later was worth it. So much younger-looking when Martin smiled, really smiled, the fine lines in his face deepening but becoming meaningless. Something to do with the eyes, Danny supposed, which was where Martin smiled most.
Martin turned his attention to the bags on the countertop, peering into them interestedly.
“You didn’t get the Frosted Flakes to bribe me, did you?” he asked, playfully suspicious and Danny had to laugh.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said as he moved to stand closer to Martin.
“There are better things to do with a gift horse’s mouth,” Martin agreed, one arm sliding beneath Danny’s suit coat to pull him closer, and then Martin’s mouth was on his.
* * *
“This Parole Board is convened in the matter of Riker’s Island Inmate 4590178, Rafael Alvarez, to review the inmate’s eligibility for parole.” The head of the board, Kendall Masters, a fat balding man, surveyed the room, pale and institutional as the man himself. Danny shifted impatiently on the folding chair, and Martin touched his wrist in a silent command to keep still.
Like the last time, the miserable ferry ride and miserable meeting room, but Rafi was older and greyer, with new scars and a new attorney. Danny thought he recognized one of the women on the board. Sylvia sat in the back with Nickie – she’d found a sitter for Rafaela, having refused to bring her to the prison – and hadn’t spoken to Danny once, hadn’t even looked at Martin.
“At this time, the board asks if there are any who wish to speak on behalf of Mr. Alvarez.” Masters’ tone made it plain he hoped there weren’t.
I'm Danny Taylor, an attorney for the Hope Center of New York, and I’m here to speak on behalf of my brother, Rafael Alvarez.
“You spoke for your brother last time,” Masters observed, tapping Rafi’s dossier.
“Yes, sir,” Danny said. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Except you were involved in the investigation of your brother’s disappearance; according to the notes the D.A.’s office provided, you were involved at the direct request of his...” Masters trailed off delicately. “His then-girlfriend.”
“And we found him. What he was involved in.... That didn’t change anything for me”
“The law is fortunate to have officers such as yourself.” Masters smirked. “So you still stand by the testimony given at the hearing in 2004?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Very well.” Masters scribbled something in the file, then looked up to glare at the rest of the room. “Anyone else?”
Martin stood, a soft and unobtrusive rustling.
“And you are?” Masters said impatiently.
“Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, with the Department of Counter-terrorism in the FBI.” The silence that introduction made was deep enough for Martin to add, “In 2005 I was with the Missing Persons unit assigned to the investigation of Mr. Alvarez’s disappearance. I was the arresting officer in the case.”
Danny heard Sylvia’s sharp intake of breath and had to fight the impulse not to turn around and see her face. Finding Rafi when they did had saved his life – much later, Danny had admitted to himself that, had they not shown up, Rafi would have died in that garage (and had persuaded Sylvia to admit it) – but arresting him... Martin had spared him that, too, that guilt and Sylvia’s anger and resentment – or some of it, anyway. Jack had been explicit, though; if anything illegal had happened, they were following procedure, no exceptions or extenuating circumstances, and those packages had allowed no way out.
Masters was listening to Martin’s testimony, interrupting occasionally. Martin took it in stride, unshakeable and calm, and Danny reminded himself that Martin had faced worse than Masters before.
“Your testimony is duly noted, Agent Fitzgerald,” Masters said, and made another scribbled notation in his file. “The board will convene to discuss the inmate’s request for parole and the testimony offered both for and against his release. Counsel for the inmate and the district attorney will be notified of our decision within one week. Dismissed.”
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: I would just like to say, for the record, that it's unfair for two imaginary people to be so fascinating.
In other news: More "Hours" after the weekend.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R? Mention of sensitive material (physical abuse of children in later chapters)
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Advertisements: Part of the ALTC/Distance series, taking place about one year after "Biscayne." Previous parts are:
Sons; ALTC; Every Distance; Sons & Lovers; Blue River; Biscayne. For
wordclaim50 09 (Word Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).Notes: After a lot of uncertainty, I'm dipping back into the ALTC-verse, as it is a happy place and I like it.
bornofchaos had a request for another fic (in progress at the moment) involving Danny's heritage, and her request, along with a drabble written for smeggin_amyk got me to get this off the back burner."La Familia" is mostly Danny-centric, with some speculations on his family history, though some of Martin's comes up incidentally.
CHAPTER ONE
There was this kid in Danny’s high school, Pedro. Pedro something. Gonzales maybe, a couple years older than him, a senior, but they’d been in the same chemistry class because Pedro’d had to retake it so he could graduate.
Ramirez, maybe. Danny honestly doesn’t remember. But that’s not the point.
The point is that Danny shared a lab desk with the kid for most of the semester, and the only thing he knew about Pedro other than his name was that the kid was as gay as the day is long, and not because Pedro had told him, but because Danny knew somehow that he was, teenager’s instinct for anything different. Pedro would sometimes come in, with mumbled explanations for their teacher about the bruises decorating his face, and slide into his seat next to Danny without saying a word or even looking at him.
Once, Danny had seen a group of boys beating the hell out of Pedro, a knot of them in the far corner of the baseball diamond and Danny hiding out under the bleachers, watching them through the struts. They were far away, but Danny could still hear bright, cruel laughter and one of the redneck bastards saying something about fucking wetback queers, then punctuating the insult with a kick to Pedro’s ribs.
And Pedro fought back. One of the kids staggered and fell down clutching his face, and his friends paused, like they honestly weren’t expecting that to happen. And probably they weren’t, because the smart thing to do when you’re outfaced three to one is either give up and take it or run away, and they’d expected Pedro to do one of those two things.
But Pedro fought and fought until he couldn’t fight anymore, until the baseball coach finally saw what was going on, ran out to break it up and call the paramedics, because Pedro wasn’t moving. The only time Pedro moved after that, that Danny could see, was when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics were trying to get him onto the stretcher without jarring him too badly. Even from his hiding place, Danny could hear Pedro scream, this terrible, ragged sound that he still hasn’t forgotten.
Pedro didn’t appear in chemistry class that next Monday, or the one after that. When he finally came back two weeks later, arm in a cast and bandages showing through the rips in his jeans, he didn’t look at Danny or at anyone else. Just slid into his seat and ignored the teacher’s questions, and Danny had to do all the experiments for the rest of the semester because Pedro’s cast made him clumsy and knocked over the test tubes.
The lesson Danny took away from all of this wasn’t to fight back and be proud of who you are, but to do everything you can to hide it – and if you can’t hide it, tell the other kid he’s the cocksucking fag and punch him in the nose.
Even now he never really thought about his childhood a lot, and he figured he was allowed the denial.
When Danny was thirteen and realized he was too much like Pedro, he’d prayed to God to please, please let him be normal. His family at the time, the Fosters (Eileen Foster would say “We’re a Foster family!” and then bray like a goddamned donkey, which had driven Danny crazy), were reaching the limits of their tolerance with him anyway at that point. Eileen and George had belonged to some kind of evangelical church, and it was bad enough that Danny was even nominally Catholic, so if he’d even breathed a word about being gay he would have ended up like Pedro. Maybe worse, because George had played defense for U Miami, and had been at least five times Danny’s size.
He’d never seen Rafi except one time when he was fourteen, through a glass window at the juvenile detention facility. The Fosters had refused to allow Rafi to see him, save that once – that had been one of the conditions of them taking him in – and at the time, he’d been grateful for that, one of the few things they’d gotten right.
And that year, the fourteenth year of his life, had been the rift, when everything had changed; he’d gotten caught with some of George’s private stash, and George’s fist in his eye was the reason he couldn’t ever look at gin again (despite his otherwise indiscriminate taste for alcohol), and not long before his fifteenth birthday, he’d traded sex for a joint from a drunk college kid on South Beach.
Told George and Eileen about doing that the day Family Services moved him in with the Vegas, only grinned when George told him he was going to burn in hell.
He still couldn’t pinpoint the day he’d stolen his first taste of beer, when a few illicit sips had become a whole bottle, when he’d graduated to vodka and tequila, when he’d found himself keeping a step ahead of the cops. When he’d accepted the fact that alcohol would always be a part of his life, in one way or another.
Now, twenty years or more down the road he found things changing again, stepping into a small office in a Manhattan non-profit organization for exploited children.
A change from Camelio, Barrett, and Brown – though, come to think of it, his first law firm had been the change; this, what he was walking into now, was familiar. He’d told Martin, and he’d made a joke about ‘once a public servant, always a public servant,’ though he’d wondered to himself if private practice had taken him too far away from what had always been familiar to him. In a way, his inherited plywood desk with the bad oak veneer and the military-green file cabinets seemed like home – had been home, Danny supposed, remembering that his social workers had had offices much like his. Martin had helped him move in, laughing about needing a decorator and offering his services, which Danny had declined.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, Rafi reappeared.
“Rafi’s parole hearing is coming up two weeks from now, on the thirteenth.”
“Already?” He winced, knowing what that sounded like, but the attorney didn’t comment.
What the attorney did say was, “He’s been a model prisoner, nothing on his record, and he’s completed rehab…” She trailed on for a while longer, ending with, “I would like to ask you to testify for him in front of the parole board.”
Danny agreed automatically, forcing the words past the knot of habitual resentment and anger that always tied him up whenever he thought about his brother, and he wondered if that would ever change.
“I know Rafi would appreciate that very much,” the attorney – Denning? Jennings? Something like that – said. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor.”
“Yeah,” Danny said hoarsely. Confirmed the date and time, not really hearing the attorney’s second round of thanks.
Things had changed, Danny told himself fiercely as he hung up, running a shaking hand over his face. He’d talked with Sylvia and Nickie a few times, but hadn’t mentioned Martin, unsure still about how Sylvia would react. Rafi had changed, if what Sylvia had said was true, and the memory of the terror of that night, when he’d found Rafi with that needle and makeshift tourniquet, said as much as well.
And now Rafi had a daughter, Rafaela, who was four and noisy, and Danny wondered how the hell Rafi was going to take care of two kids. He wondered how the hell Sylvia had done it on a nurse’s wages and the little money Rafi could give her. He’d tried to help her out when he could, but Sylvia was proud and not about to take any money from her guilt-stricken brother-in-law, and Danny could understand that.
His concentration was shot for the day, and he left early, ghosting past the secretaries and the other attorneys without being detected. Not that home was much better, the apartment too small for his thoughts and Martin wasn’t there, so he left again, trailed around the neighborhood, running pointless errands – picking up cereal for Martin, a light bulb for his bedside lamp. And he felt utterly ridiculous, staring down at the bags in his arms, thinking that his brother was getting out of prison, maybe, and he was buying... stuff.
Anxiety chewed at him as he walked back to his apartment, reflexive glance up to the bedroom window – the light was on, brightness subdued through the blinds – told him that Martin had returned. A prickle of worry raced up his spine, even as he tried to convince himself that everything would be okay, and why the hell was he worrying? Martin knew about Rafi, had known ever since Sylvia had called that morning years ago, saying Rafi had gone missing.
His apartment, not really. Theirs, two names on the lease, bigger, with an office big enough to accommodate Martin’s obsession with technology and some of Danny’s casework. Their furniture, a hodgepodge of Martin’s and his and some stuff they’d bought together.
“Hey,” was Martin’s typical, laconic greeting as Danny shouldered his way through the door. Martin took one of the bags from him, face brightening as he saw the Frosted Flakes, fading when he took a closer look at Danny. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Danny said, voice rough with confusion and uncertainty, and goddammit this was Martin, and why did he find it so hard to believe in him now?
“Right.” Martin’s expression was patently disbelieving. He set the bags down on the counter with an emphatic thump, not even bothering to pick through them to see what Danny had bought, his usual ritual. He pulled himself up to sit beside them, fingers laced together and legs dangling, a carelessness Danny recognized as feigned. “Danny, come on. What’s up?”
“I... Rafi’s up for parole,” Danny said, the words coming despite his efforts to keep them back. “His case worker called today... His hearing’s set for two weeks from today.”
Martin nodded thoughtfully, leaning back against the refrigerator. Danny glanced desperately around the kitchen, not wanting to look at Martin’s face, afraid of what he’d see there.
“You want me to testify for him? I mean, I was there... I know what happened.”
“I – you’d do that?” He swung back to look at Martin, who was watching him closely, worry and confusion written clearly in Martin’s eyes, worry and concern for him. No judgment – when had there ever been, and why the hell was he still looking for it? – only a wordless, searching look, and what Martin was looking for, Danny didn’t know.
“Of course I would.” Martin paused, tilting his head just so, worry sharpening into Fitzgeraldian assessment. “You look like you don’t believe me.”
Danny couldn’t say anything to that, because what Martin said was true. Or, true in a way because he wanted to believe Martin and knew he should, because Martin hadn’t ever backed away from him for anything. He remembered Martin’s words with sudden, uncomfortable clarity – I’m not used to other people wanting to help me...But that wasn’t a good enough reason not to trust you – and wondered if he’d been doing the same thing to Martin, holding out, holding back. No, no wondering... he was.
He didn’t answer, only looked at Martin, helpless to keep anything off his face, had to let Martin look and see for himself.
Whatever Martin saw there had him off the countertop in a heartbeat.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Fierce, unflinching and Danny looked away. “I was there, Danny. I know what happened.”
He did. He’d read Rafi his rights and booked him himself, shepherded him through processing and into holding. You shouldn’t be your own brother’s arresting officer, he’d said, and added something about procedure and propriety – two things they’d never been concerned with – something about how the D.A. would look on anything that compromised the investigation. Danny had only heard the first part, nodded in gratitude and said –
This is Martin Fitzgerald; he’s a friend, he’ll take care of you.
Rafi’s expression had been dull, unseeing; Danny doubted if Martin had ever really registered in Rafi’s consciousness.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Danny said quickly, into a silence he’d allowed to go on for too long. “I can take care of it myself.”
Martin’s mouth firmed. “I do want to, Danny.” He paused, regarding Danny silently for a moment, seemed like he wanted to say something, but looked away.
“Just let me do this for you, okay?” he said at last.
“Yeah.”
The relief on Martin’s face hurt, like he honestly hadn’t expected Danny to agree, but the smile he turned on Danny a heartbeat later was worth it. So much younger-looking when Martin smiled, really smiled, the fine lines in his face deepening but becoming meaningless. Something to do with the eyes, Danny supposed, which was where Martin smiled most.
Martin turned his attention to the bags on the countertop, peering into them interestedly.
“You didn’t get the Frosted Flakes to bribe me, did you?” he asked, playfully suspicious and Danny had to laugh.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said as he moved to stand closer to Martin.
“There are better things to do with a gift horse’s mouth,” Martin agreed, one arm sliding beneath Danny’s suit coat to pull him closer, and then Martin’s mouth was on his.
“This Parole Board is convened in the matter of Riker’s Island Inmate 4590178, Rafael Alvarez, to review the inmate’s eligibility for parole.” The head of the board, Kendall Masters, a fat balding man, surveyed the room, pale and institutional as the man himself. Danny shifted impatiently on the folding chair, and Martin touched his wrist in a silent command to keep still.
Like the last time, the miserable ferry ride and miserable meeting room, but Rafi was older and greyer, with new scars and a new attorney. Danny thought he recognized one of the women on the board. Sylvia sat in the back with Nickie – she’d found a sitter for Rafaela, having refused to bring her to the prison – and hadn’t spoken to Danny once, hadn’t even looked at Martin.
“At this time, the board asks if there are any who wish to speak on behalf of Mr. Alvarez.” Masters’ tone made it plain he hoped there weren’t.
I'm Danny Taylor, an attorney for the Hope Center of New York, and I’m here to speak on behalf of my brother, Rafael Alvarez.
“You spoke for your brother last time,” Masters observed, tapping Rafi’s dossier.
“Yes, sir,” Danny said. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Except you were involved in the investigation of your brother’s disappearance; according to the notes the D.A.’s office provided, you were involved at the direct request of his...” Masters trailed off delicately. “His then-girlfriend.”
“And we found him. What he was involved in.... That didn’t change anything for me”
“The law is fortunate to have officers such as yourself.” Masters smirked. “So you still stand by the testimony given at the hearing in 2004?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Very well.” Masters scribbled something in the file, then looked up to glare at the rest of the room. “Anyone else?”
Martin stood, a soft and unobtrusive rustling.
“And you are?” Masters said impatiently.
“Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, with the Department of Counter-terrorism in the FBI.” The silence that introduction made was deep enough for Martin to add, “In 2005 I was with the Missing Persons unit assigned to the investigation of Mr. Alvarez’s disappearance. I was the arresting officer in the case.”
Danny heard Sylvia’s sharp intake of breath and had to fight the impulse not to turn around and see her face. Finding Rafi when they did had saved his life – much later, Danny had admitted to himself that, had they not shown up, Rafi would have died in that garage (and had persuaded Sylvia to admit it) – but arresting him... Martin had spared him that, too, that guilt and Sylvia’s anger and resentment – or some of it, anyway. Jack had been explicit, though; if anything illegal had happened, they were following procedure, no exceptions or extenuating circumstances, and those packages had allowed no way out.
Masters was listening to Martin’s testimony, interrupting occasionally. Martin took it in stride, unshakeable and calm, and Danny reminded himself that Martin had faced worse than Masters before.
“Your testimony is duly noted, Agent Fitzgerald,” Masters said, and made another scribbled notation in his file. “The board will convene to discuss the inmate’s request for parole and the testimony offered both for and against his release. Counsel for the inmate and the district attorney will be notified of our decision within one week. Dismissed.”
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: I would just like to say, for the record, that it's unfair for two imaginary people to be so fascinating.
In other news: More "Hours" after the weekend.
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