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.fic: La Familia - D/M (PG13/R) 2.3/4
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 (find; Character Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).
Previous chapter: 01
Notes: Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moodymuse19 and oconel for providing the Spanish. *loves*
CHAPTER TWO
His father had gone to church regularly for a while, Danny remembers. He can recall a rough hand shaking him out of sleep early Sunday mornings, drowsing in the pastiche of alcohol, aftershave, and diesel exhaust on the bus to the parish church. Despiertate, despiertate whispered in his ear during midnight Mass on Christmas Eve when he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Then came one morning when his mother woke him instead, telling him Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá pero debemos ir a la iglesia He’d always been noisy, but that morning he’d dressed and crept from their apartment in silence, Rafi – who was always more serious back then – gripping his hand in silent reminder.
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá..
His mother went every Sunday morning, even though she worked late Saturday nights for a hotel downtown, and so Danny and Rafi went every Sunday morning, too, and stayed for Sunday school. And the three of them went to every major service during Advent, when the church would become a riot of red, purple, and green, and then gold during the candlelight service Danny loved, even though Rafi wouldn’t let him hold his own candle until he turned ten, and then Lent. Danny had always hated Good Friday, the darkened church and old women in black like widows praying, their rosaries clicking in arthritic hands, and had never seen what was good about it, even though the priest had explained that was the day the Lord died to save the world.
Danny remembers going with his mother once on one of her days off, when the church had been silent except for the rectors and the priests, a few people going to confession. She’d taken him along with her to sign him up for Sunday School again, even though she done that without him. But his father was home (sick, Rafi had said, in a way that told Danny – too perceptive for ten years old – had known was a lie) and Danny had started noticing that his father spent most of his days home sick with beer, and when he was home, his mother wanted Danny not to be there.
He’d been deposited in a pew while his mother went to the office to fill out forms. So quiet, like a ghost, like one of the nuns Danny would see occasionally, a nun in the grey of a hotel maid’s uniform, with lined brown hands folded in worry, not in prayer.
Danny stayed still as long as he could – about three minutes – until he had to get up and look around. The church was silent and echoing and cavernous, which he wasn’t used to, with only three older ladies murmuring the rosary in Spanish, a trio of them kneeling stiffly in front of the bank of candles and the statue of Mary. The light of the candles shone on their faces and made deep shadows of the lines around their mouths. Mary glowed, white and gold and pure, behind the screen.
Danny curled up in one of the pews behind them to listen. Not to eavesdrop, just to listen.
Oh, la pobre María Álvarez, ¿has visto? Ha traído a su hijo con ella otra vez, one of them said. Danny kept still and quiet.
The second lady crossed herself.
Manuel no ha trabajo en tres días esta semana the first said disapprovingly. ¿Cómo se supone que María va a mantener su casa? ¿A sus hijos? Rosa Márquez dice que María no pedirá ayuda a la misión.
Es una mujer orgullosa, said the third lady, who had been silent. But she did not make ‘proud’ sound like a bad thing.
Danny wanted to hear what else they would have said about his mother, and find out more about his father, but he heard his mother’s footsteps in the nave (they were distinctive footsteps because they were so quiet, not at all like his father’s, which were loud and rude). Her voice – Danny, Danny, ¿dónde estás? – and Danny slid out of his pew and ran up the aisle toward her.
No corras en la iglesia she said severely as he reached her. ¿Qué te he dicho?
“Okay, Mom.”
His mother, Danny remembers, couldn’t speak English; she understood it, though, understood it perfectly. A reason she needed Danny with her on her errands, she always told his father; necesito que traduzca lo que quiero a los dependientes en la tienda.. His father had always complained about that; he spoke English and spoke it well. Why couldn’t she?
His mother always shrugged and said how quickly Danny caught onto the language, how his teachers at school were so proud of him, and he needed something to do for his pocket money, and pulled him along with her out the door.
Now, looking back, Danny wonders how much English she could have spoken if she’d wanted to, if maybe the language hadn’t been the difficulty.
* * *
Summer in New York City was, in some ways, like summer in Hialeah: hot, oppressive, mirages dancing up from the sidewalks, humid some days if the wind blew the wrong way. And the wind... Nothing fresh on it, only more humidity, exhaust fumes, and garbage. Like Hialeah. Only the sun, not quite as harsh as Florida’s, was different.
The worst of summer lay a couple months ahead, but a week from Memorial Day the weather had abandoned spring, already ahead of schedule. Danny straggled up from the underground in a wave of heat and subway smells, sticky and uncomfortable in his dress shirt and tie, unhappy with the day.
His cell shrilled noisily from his breast pocket and he was tempted not to answer it – they’d leave a message if it was important, or if someone was dying – but then in a flash of paranoia he considered the possibility of someone actually dying and he reached for the phone.
Sylvia’s number – Rafi’s now, Rafi’s – came up on the caller ID. He still hadn’t changed it.
Turn the phone off. That was his first impulse, so strong he almost gave into it, thumb hovering over the button that would silence the phone and keep Rafi out of his life for a few more hours.
You’re past this; answer it. The second, weaker than the first, but it gave him pause.
The last time, when Rafi had gone missing, he hadn’t been destroyed. Hadn’t slipped or fallen, or given up. The weeks following had been hard – God, they’d been hard – but he’d gone to his meetings, talked with his sponsor and Viv, even Martin a little. Over coffee, which was all the thanks Martin would take for helping with the investigation.
It’s what I do, man, and you’re a friend. Martin had said that, and Danny knew Martin didn’t say things like that only to say them.
So anyway, he’d talked and not talked, and he knew he was still in danger, still an alcoholic and still trying not to be. But Rafi couldn’t bring him down, not that Rafi would want to; no one could.
He pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hey, Danny.” Rafi’s voice, as big as the rest of him, so loud and clear he could be standing at Danny’s shoulder. “You done for the day?”
“Yeah, just heading home.” He hadn’t stopped at the store and didn’t feel like cooking – too muggy and miserable for that –and was glad Martin would never in a million years object to take-out or delivery. “What’s up? How are you?”
“Doin’ okay, you know, readjusting – Rafaela, no, no, deja eso. Es el bolso de mamá. Nickie, coge a tu hermana! – Sorry... But I got a job already, body work at a garage near the apartment. It’s good. We do a lot of classic stuff.”
“That’s... That’s good, Rafi.” Danny stopped near the front entrance to their apartment building, not wholly sure if he wanted to have this conversation in Martin’s presence and absolutely sure he didn’t want the doorman to overhear. “Glad to hear you’re doing okay.”
“Yeah. Listen, I have next Monday off, and Sylvia and I were going to take the kids down to the park on Memorial Day, have a picnic. You... uh, you want to come?”
Danny wasn’t used to hearing hesitation in Rafi’s voice, the really aching kind that said he already expected the answer but would ask anyway. He’d used to hear something like it when they were kids, but he skirted around the painful edges of those memories, unwilling to touch.
“Listen, can I call you back? I might... I might have to be out of town that weekend.” A desperate lie and a bad one; his work didn’t require travel, and if it did it definitely wouldn’t be on the first major holiday weekend of the year. They didn’t have any other relatives alive, or at least any relatives they knew of or who would be willing to claim them. “I told some friends upstate I might see them.”
“Okay,” Rafi said. “Yeah, cool. Um, just let me know okay? So Sylvia knows how much to pack?”
“Sure. Say hi to her, Nickie, and Rafaela, okay?”
“Yeah. Bye, Danny.”
“Bye, Rafi.”
Danny shut the phone with shaky hands, sweat-slick hands that nearly dropped it twice before he could get it back in his pocket. A minute to compose himself enough for James the doorman not to notice, and then he’d have the quiet of a four-floor elevator ride to think.
He didn’t have much thinking done by the time he got to their apartment – someone, somehow, had got the elevator working properly, it seemed (it usually took forever) – and thinking was like trying to wade through a deluge of impression and possibility, made worse by the dragging exhaustion of a day spent mostly in futility.
“Hey, you’re back,” Martin said as he wandered out of the kitchen, covered with sweat and grime of his own, pulling impatiently at a sticky running shirt with one hand and gripping a glass of water in the other.
“The country safe for the next twelve hours?” Danny asked as he dumped his coat and briefcase next to Martin’s on the living room chair they never used.
“I personally called every terrorist and anarchist and they swore they’d keep quiet tonight.” Martin gave him an aggravated look over the rim of his water glass and Danny managed to dredge up a grin in response. “Rough day?”
Trust Martin to barge right into the subject. For a man whose mind was among the most subtle and perceptive Danny knew, Martin had desperately little tact. To earn himself time to think – a whole twenty seconds of it, but he needed every second he could get, dealing with Martin – Danny walked into the kitchen and began to poke around the refrigerator.
The refrigerator air sighed cool and welcome across his skin, and with his face among the milk, eggs, and juice he wouldn’t have to worry about hiding his reaction from Martin, who knew him too well anyway. Sighing, he recognized that unworthy thought for what it was and pulled out the bottle of apple juice, turned around to offer a slight smile at Martin, who was – of course – watching him attentively.
“Rafi called as I was coming home,” he said softly, trying to sound casual, as though pouring a glass of juice were infinitely more interesting than his brother calling for the first time since his parole. “He wanted to know if I would join them for something on Memorial Day.”
“You should go,” Martin said immediately. “You haven’t seen him since he got out.”
Danny wondered why Martin, of all people, would be an advocate for reuniting estranged family members. He and his parents were getting along better these days – they’d been down to D.C. for Christmas and once when Martin had to testify in the Silverman trial – but there was still reserve there, uncertainty that Danny doubted would ever go away. Maybe that reserve had always been there, whatever might have happened between Martin and Victor.
“I told him I’d told friends I might go upstate to see them,” Danny added.
“What friends upstate? We don’t – Oh.” Martin stared at him for a moment. “Why’d you...?”
Why’d you lie? Martin meant.
Danny shrugged. “I guess I don’t know what to do about him yet. I mean, I only saw him a couple times the first time he got out of prison.” He smiled bitterly. “You know, I think I’ve seen Rafi maybe ten times since he got tossed in juvie.”
Martin nodded, leaned back against the counter in a copy of Danny’s pose, settling in for a discussion. Or a not-discussion, as it would probably end up being; neither of them liked talking, still.
“You won’t know unless you go,” Martin offered after a moment.
“I know that.” Damn Martin for being right. “But what... What about you? You should go too.”
And what about Martin? Rafi didn’t know – about Martin, about Danny, about DannyandMartin, any of it, any of them. Ten times he’d seen Rafi since Rafi turned seventeen, not enough time to tell a brother anything – enough time to learn distrust, certainly, trying to pull himself up as his brother pulled him down. The Danny Taylor of six years ago never would have considered telling Rafi about being gay, about living with another man.
The Danny Taylor now would consider it, but not necessarily do it.
“Would your brother be cool with it?” Martin asked.
“I have no idea,” Danny said, wincing internally at the lie.
Probably not. Martin’s own parents were still trying, his mother because Danny made her son happy and Danny knew she wanted nothing more than that, Victor trying most likely because Petra told him to, and Danny couldn’t imagine anyone willfully disobeying Petra Fitzgerald. Danny tried to imagine telling Rafi, could only imagine him responding with an explosion of anger – they’d both inherited that, their father’s temper, and although Danny hated it he could never get rid of that reminder of his father – and his brother’s anger had always frightened him.
Weird how he reverted to being five again, with his brother an awe-inspiring ten, and Rafi had always seemed twice his size. Even now, Danny (who was not very short himself) felt ridiculously small and overpowered in Rafi’s presence.
Ten times since juvie hadn’t been enough time to grow out of that childhood fear, either. Even when the only time he’d looked at Rafi had been to look at him with contempt, that fear had always sat there, coiled, waiting.
“If it’s okay, I’ll come as a friend,” Martin suggested.
“As Rafi’s arresting officer?” Danny had to smile at that. “But he does know you’re a friend of mine... I told him that, the one time I saw him at Riker’s after he got sent up.” He sighed. “He owes you, Martin. We both do.”
“No, you don’t,” Martin said with utter finality and there was nothing Danny could really say to that.
“Call him back tonight.” It was not a suggestion.
“Yes, sir.” Not many people willfully disobeyed Martin Fitzgerald, either.
“Good,” Martin said, smiling in the way that only Danny ever saw – ridiculous how he still felt proud, good about that, but there it was – and moving closer, setting down his glass and deftly taking Danny’s from him. Startling, how quickly Martin could shift from seriousness to play, though there was nothing light in the blue eyes staring at him or the fingers on his shoulders, his cheekbones.
“I’m nasty,” Danny complained, uncomfortably aware of the sweat congealing underneath his shirt and Martin, hot as the day outside, pressed against him.
“You are,” Martin agreed, smirking against Danny’s mouth, “but then so am I.”
Which was true enough; he could smell Martin’s sweat and the undertone scents of the city, and Martin’s body was hard and hot through the fabric of his running clothes, and Danny wondered how it was that Martin, dirty as he was, as they both were, could still make him feel clean.
-tbc.-
Translations:
Despiertate, despiertate: wake up, wake up
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá pero debemos ir a la iglesia: Please be quiet, Danny, we can’t wake Daddy, but we need to go to church.
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá: Please be quiet, Danny, we can’t wake Daddy.
Oh, la pobre María Álvarez, ¿has visto? Ha traído a su hijo con ella otra vez: Oh, that poor Maria Alvarez – did you see, she’s brought her boy with her again
Manuel no ha ido a trabajar tres días esta semana [...] Cómo se supone que María va a mantener su casa? ¿A sus hijos? Rosa Márquez dice que María no pedirá ayuda a la misión.
Manuel has not worked three days this week [...] How is Maria supposed to keep their home? Keep her boys fed? Rosa Marquez says Maria will not ask for help from the mission.
Es una mujer orgullosa: She is a proud woman
Danny, Danny, ¿dónde estás?: Danny, Danny where are you?
No corras en la iglesia [...] ¿Qué te he dicho?: Don’t run in church [...] What have I told you?
necesito que traduzca lo que quiero a los dependientes en la tienda: he needs to translate for me, for the clerks at the store so they know what I want.
Rafaela, no, no, deja eso. Es el bolso de mamá. Nickie, coge a tu hermana: Rafaela, no, no, put that down, that’s Mommy’s purse. Nickie, get your sister!
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 (find; Character Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).Previous chapter: 01
Notes: Many, many thanks to
moodymuse19 and oconel for providing the Spanish. *loves*CHAPTER TWO
His father had gone to church regularly for a while, Danny remembers. He can recall a rough hand shaking him out of sleep early Sunday mornings, drowsing in the pastiche of alcohol, aftershave, and diesel exhaust on the bus to the parish church. Despiertate, despiertate whispered in his ear during midnight Mass on Christmas Eve when he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Then came one morning when his mother woke him instead, telling him Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá pero debemos ir a la iglesia He’d always been noisy, but that morning he’d dressed and crept from their apartment in silence, Rafi – who was always more serious back then – gripping his hand in silent reminder.
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá..
His mother went every Sunday morning, even though she worked late Saturday nights for a hotel downtown, and so Danny and Rafi went every Sunday morning, too, and stayed for Sunday school. And the three of them went to every major service during Advent, when the church would become a riot of red, purple, and green, and then gold during the candlelight service Danny loved, even though Rafi wouldn’t let him hold his own candle until he turned ten, and then Lent. Danny had always hated Good Friday, the darkened church and old women in black like widows praying, their rosaries clicking in arthritic hands, and had never seen what was good about it, even though the priest had explained that was the day the Lord died to save the world.
Danny remembers going with his mother once on one of her days off, when the church had been silent except for the rectors and the priests, a few people going to confession. She’d taken him along with her to sign him up for Sunday School again, even though she done that without him. But his father was home (sick, Rafi had said, in a way that told Danny – too perceptive for ten years old – had known was a lie) and Danny had started noticing that his father spent most of his days home sick with beer, and when he was home, his mother wanted Danny not to be there.
He’d been deposited in a pew while his mother went to the office to fill out forms. So quiet, like a ghost, like one of the nuns Danny would see occasionally, a nun in the grey of a hotel maid’s uniform, with lined brown hands folded in worry, not in prayer.
Danny stayed still as long as he could – about three minutes – until he had to get up and look around. The church was silent and echoing and cavernous, which he wasn’t used to, with only three older ladies murmuring the rosary in Spanish, a trio of them kneeling stiffly in front of the bank of candles and the statue of Mary. The light of the candles shone on their faces and made deep shadows of the lines around their mouths. Mary glowed, white and gold and pure, behind the screen.
Danny curled up in one of the pews behind them to listen. Not to eavesdrop, just to listen.
Oh, la pobre María Álvarez, ¿has visto? Ha traído a su hijo con ella otra vez, one of them said. Danny kept still and quiet.
The second lady crossed herself.
Manuel no ha trabajo en tres días esta semana the first said disapprovingly. ¿Cómo se supone que María va a mantener su casa? ¿A sus hijos? Rosa Márquez dice que María no pedirá ayuda a la misión.
Es una mujer orgullosa, said the third lady, who had been silent. But she did not make ‘proud’ sound like a bad thing.
Danny wanted to hear what else they would have said about his mother, and find out more about his father, but he heard his mother’s footsteps in the nave (they were distinctive footsteps because they were so quiet, not at all like his father’s, which were loud and rude). Her voice – Danny, Danny, ¿dónde estás? – and Danny slid out of his pew and ran up the aisle toward her.
No corras en la iglesia she said severely as he reached her. ¿Qué te he dicho?
“Okay, Mom.”
His mother, Danny remembers, couldn’t speak English; she understood it, though, understood it perfectly. A reason she needed Danny with her on her errands, she always told his father; necesito que traduzca lo que quiero a los dependientes en la tienda.. His father had always complained about that; he spoke English and spoke it well. Why couldn’t she?
His mother always shrugged and said how quickly Danny caught onto the language, how his teachers at school were so proud of him, and he needed something to do for his pocket money, and pulled him along with her out the door.
Now, looking back, Danny wonders how much English she could have spoken if she’d wanted to, if maybe the language hadn’t been the difficulty.
Summer in New York City was, in some ways, like summer in Hialeah: hot, oppressive, mirages dancing up from the sidewalks, humid some days if the wind blew the wrong way. And the wind... Nothing fresh on it, only more humidity, exhaust fumes, and garbage. Like Hialeah. Only the sun, not quite as harsh as Florida’s, was different.
The worst of summer lay a couple months ahead, but a week from Memorial Day the weather had abandoned spring, already ahead of schedule. Danny straggled up from the underground in a wave of heat and subway smells, sticky and uncomfortable in his dress shirt and tie, unhappy with the day.
His cell shrilled noisily from his breast pocket and he was tempted not to answer it – they’d leave a message if it was important, or if someone was dying – but then in a flash of paranoia he considered the possibility of someone actually dying and he reached for the phone.
Sylvia’s number – Rafi’s now, Rafi’s – came up on the caller ID. He still hadn’t changed it.
Turn the phone off. That was his first impulse, so strong he almost gave into it, thumb hovering over the button that would silence the phone and keep Rafi out of his life for a few more hours.
You’re past this; answer it. The second, weaker than the first, but it gave him pause.
The last time, when Rafi had gone missing, he hadn’t been destroyed. Hadn’t slipped or fallen, or given up. The weeks following had been hard – God, they’d been hard – but he’d gone to his meetings, talked with his sponsor and Viv, even Martin a little. Over coffee, which was all the thanks Martin would take for helping with the investigation.
It’s what I do, man, and you’re a friend. Martin had said that, and Danny knew Martin didn’t say things like that only to say them.
So anyway, he’d talked and not talked, and he knew he was still in danger, still an alcoholic and still trying not to be. But Rafi couldn’t bring him down, not that Rafi would want to; no one could.
He pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hey, Danny.” Rafi’s voice, as big as the rest of him, so loud and clear he could be standing at Danny’s shoulder. “You done for the day?”
“Yeah, just heading home.” He hadn’t stopped at the store and didn’t feel like cooking – too muggy and miserable for that –and was glad Martin would never in a million years object to take-out or delivery. “What’s up? How are you?”
“Doin’ okay, you know, readjusting – Rafaela, no, no, deja eso. Es el bolso de mamá. Nickie, coge a tu hermana! – Sorry... But I got a job already, body work at a garage near the apartment. It’s good. We do a lot of classic stuff.”
“That’s... That’s good, Rafi.” Danny stopped near the front entrance to their apartment building, not wholly sure if he wanted to have this conversation in Martin’s presence and absolutely sure he didn’t want the doorman to overhear. “Glad to hear you’re doing okay.”
“Yeah. Listen, I have next Monday off, and Sylvia and I were going to take the kids down to the park on Memorial Day, have a picnic. You... uh, you want to come?”
Danny wasn’t used to hearing hesitation in Rafi’s voice, the really aching kind that said he already expected the answer but would ask anyway. He’d used to hear something like it when they were kids, but he skirted around the painful edges of those memories, unwilling to touch.
“Listen, can I call you back? I might... I might have to be out of town that weekend.” A desperate lie and a bad one; his work didn’t require travel, and if it did it definitely wouldn’t be on the first major holiday weekend of the year. They didn’t have any other relatives alive, or at least any relatives they knew of or who would be willing to claim them. “I told some friends upstate I might see them.”
“Okay,” Rafi said. “Yeah, cool. Um, just let me know okay? So Sylvia knows how much to pack?”
“Sure. Say hi to her, Nickie, and Rafaela, okay?”
“Yeah. Bye, Danny.”
“Bye, Rafi.”
Danny shut the phone with shaky hands, sweat-slick hands that nearly dropped it twice before he could get it back in his pocket. A minute to compose himself enough for James the doorman not to notice, and then he’d have the quiet of a four-floor elevator ride to think.
He didn’t have much thinking done by the time he got to their apartment – someone, somehow, had got the elevator working properly, it seemed (it usually took forever) – and thinking was like trying to wade through a deluge of impression and possibility, made worse by the dragging exhaustion of a day spent mostly in futility.
“Hey, you’re back,” Martin said as he wandered out of the kitchen, covered with sweat and grime of his own, pulling impatiently at a sticky running shirt with one hand and gripping a glass of water in the other.
“The country safe for the next twelve hours?” Danny asked as he dumped his coat and briefcase next to Martin’s on the living room chair they never used.
“I personally called every terrorist and anarchist and they swore they’d keep quiet tonight.” Martin gave him an aggravated look over the rim of his water glass and Danny managed to dredge up a grin in response. “Rough day?”
Trust Martin to barge right into the subject. For a man whose mind was among the most subtle and perceptive Danny knew, Martin had desperately little tact. To earn himself time to think – a whole twenty seconds of it, but he needed every second he could get, dealing with Martin – Danny walked into the kitchen and began to poke around the refrigerator.
The refrigerator air sighed cool and welcome across his skin, and with his face among the milk, eggs, and juice he wouldn’t have to worry about hiding his reaction from Martin, who knew him too well anyway. Sighing, he recognized that unworthy thought for what it was and pulled out the bottle of apple juice, turned around to offer a slight smile at Martin, who was – of course – watching him attentively.
“Rafi called as I was coming home,” he said softly, trying to sound casual, as though pouring a glass of juice were infinitely more interesting than his brother calling for the first time since his parole. “He wanted to know if I would join them for something on Memorial Day.”
“You should go,” Martin said immediately. “You haven’t seen him since he got out.”
Danny wondered why Martin, of all people, would be an advocate for reuniting estranged family members. He and his parents were getting along better these days – they’d been down to D.C. for Christmas and once when Martin had to testify in the Silverman trial – but there was still reserve there, uncertainty that Danny doubted would ever go away. Maybe that reserve had always been there, whatever might have happened between Martin and Victor.
“I told him I’d told friends I might go upstate to see them,” Danny added.
“What friends upstate? We don’t – Oh.” Martin stared at him for a moment. “Why’d you...?”
Why’d you lie? Martin meant.
Danny shrugged. “I guess I don’t know what to do about him yet. I mean, I only saw him a couple times the first time he got out of prison.” He smiled bitterly. “You know, I think I’ve seen Rafi maybe ten times since he got tossed in juvie.”
Martin nodded, leaned back against the counter in a copy of Danny’s pose, settling in for a discussion. Or a not-discussion, as it would probably end up being; neither of them liked talking, still.
“You won’t know unless you go,” Martin offered after a moment.
“I know that.” Damn Martin for being right. “But what... What about you? You should go too.”
And what about Martin? Rafi didn’t know – about Martin, about Danny, about DannyandMartin, any of it, any of them. Ten times he’d seen Rafi since Rafi turned seventeen, not enough time to tell a brother anything – enough time to learn distrust, certainly, trying to pull himself up as his brother pulled him down. The Danny Taylor of six years ago never would have considered telling Rafi about being gay, about living with another man.
The Danny Taylor now would consider it, but not necessarily do it.
“Would your brother be cool with it?” Martin asked.
“I have no idea,” Danny said, wincing internally at the lie.
Probably not. Martin’s own parents were still trying, his mother because Danny made her son happy and Danny knew she wanted nothing more than that, Victor trying most likely because Petra told him to, and Danny couldn’t imagine anyone willfully disobeying Petra Fitzgerald. Danny tried to imagine telling Rafi, could only imagine him responding with an explosion of anger – they’d both inherited that, their father’s temper, and although Danny hated it he could never get rid of that reminder of his father – and his brother’s anger had always frightened him.
Weird how he reverted to being five again, with his brother an awe-inspiring ten, and Rafi had always seemed twice his size. Even now, Danny (who was not very short himself) felt ridiculously small and overpowered in Rafi’s presence.
Ten times since juvie hadn’t been enough time to grow out of that childhood fear, either. Even when the only time he’d looked at Rafi had been to look at him with contempt, that fear had always sat there, coiled, waiting.
“If it’s okay, I’ll come as a friend,” Martin suggested.
“As Rafi’s arresting officer?” Danny had to smile at that. “But he does know you’re a friend of mine... I told him that, the one time I saw him at Riker’s after he got sent up.” He sighed. “He owes you, Martin. We both do.”
“No, you don’t,” Martin said with utter finality and there was nothing Danny could really say to that.
“Call him back tonight.” It was not a suggestion.
“Yes, sir.” Not many people willfully disobeyed Martin Fitzgerald, either.
“Good,” Martin said, smiling in the way that only Danny ever saw – ridiculous how he still felt proud, good about that, but there it was – and moving closer, setting down his glass and deftly taking Danny’s from him. Startling, how quickly Martin could shift from seriousness to play, though there was nothing light in the blue eyes staring at him or the fingers on his shoulders, his cheekbones.
“I’m nasty,” Danny complained, uncomfortably aware of the sweat congealing underneath his shirt and Martin, hot as the day outside, pressed against him.
“You are,” Martin agreed, smirking against Danny’s mouth, “but then so am I.”
Which was true enough; he could smell Martin’s sweat and the undertone scents of the city, and Martin’s body was hard and hot through the fabric of his running clothes, and Danny wondered how it was that Martin, dirty as he was, as they both were, could still make him feel clean.
-tbc.-
Translations:
Despiertate, despiertate: wake up, wake up
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá pero debemos ir a la iglesia: Please be quiet, Danny, we can’t wake Daddy, but we need to go to church.
Por favor estate en silencio, Danny, no podemos despertar a Papá: Please be quiet, Danny, we can’t wake Daddy.
Oh, la pobre María Álvarez, ¿has visto? Ha traído a su hijo con ella otra vez: Oh, that poor Maria Alvarez – did you see, she’s brought her boy with her again
Manuel no ha ido a trabajar tres días esta semana [...] Cómo se supone que María va a mantener su casa? ¿A sus hijos? Rosa Márquez dice que María no pedirá ayuda a la misión.
Manuel has not worked three days this week [...] How is Maria supposed to keep their home? Keep her boys fed? Rosa Marquez says Maria will not ask for help from the mission.
Es una mujer orgullosa: She is a proud woman
Danny, Danny, ¿dónde estás?: Danny, Danny where are you?
No corras en la iglesia [...] ¿Qué te he dicho?: Don’t run in church [...] What have I told you?
necesito que traduzca lo que quiero a los dependientes en la tienda: he needs to translate for me, for the clerks at the store so they know what I want.
Rafaela, no, no, deja eso. Es el bolso de mamá. Nickie, coge a tu hermana: Rafaela, no, no, put that down, that’s Mommy’s purse. Nickie, get your sister!