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.ficlet: Forms - D/M (PG) 1.1
Title: Forms
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG? Angst with fluffy icing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Advertisements: Coincidentally for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 #43 (Touch) and philosophy_20 #1 (Birth).
Notes: Angst/fluff for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
carrieross on the occasion of her birthday. I'm sorry this is a little late, though it is still your birthday here in the US :D Hope you had a lovely day! *hugs*
FORMS
He doesn’t really go in for birthdays now and hasn’t in a while. Way back, right after he’d joined Jack’s team, they’d thrown him a surprise fortieth birthday party, complete with black decorations, a fake prescription for Viagra, and a tombstone-shaped cake, and they’d given Marie a baseball cap with a stuffed vulture on top and I Sleep with the Old Buzzard embroidered on the front. But he’d been new then, still enough of a rookie – and still desperate to impress Agents Malone and Johnson – to hang back with his can of Coke and piece of cake and watch.
There’d been alcohol there, too, and the party had happened right after a horrific case – multiple abductions at area shopping malls, all young girls, all except one found dead – and everything in him had been screaming for a drink. So he’d left after a half hour, before he could convince himself the punch wasn’t really spiked, deliberately ignoring Vivian’s concern and the curiosity of the other agents.
Birthdays... yeah. For six years, from twelve to seventeen, his birthday had been another statistic, something he learned along with his social security number and the address of his case worker’s office. Something held against him, when he heard foster parents talking to Miss Carlyle in her office – He’ll be fourteen this year, and well, he’s that age... You know how difficult teenage boys are, and we just can’t take him now; we’re so busy with our own kids. Something ignored when it came around every year, not that he cared because he was never in one place long enough to really matter to anyone, and he kept telling himself that.
But he could remember enough good ones, when his father would laugh and maybe take them out to dinner, and there would be presents. Not a lot maybe, but some... Enough good ones to make the ones that never happened hurt.
In some ways, the boy Danny Alvarez, born thirty-five years ago today doesn’t exist anymore, hasn’t for seventeen years. He has a form saying so, duly witnessed and signed, saying that from now on he will be Danny Taylor, Danny Taylor who was never orphaned in a car crash and spent years in the system, in the humid prison of South Florida. The only place Danny Taylor’s ever lived is New York City, and sometimes he’s so convinced his life began with Danny Taylor that he can forget that former life, seven years of falling through cracks, stumbling on the crooked pavement of Hialeah. His life started the day he got that paper signed and became someone else.
So he doesn’t believe in birthdays anymore, or hasn’t until recently, when he’s started to find out that they might be good things after all.
Which is odd, because Martin dislikes observing his birthday almost as much as Danny does his own. Privately, Danny suspects Martin – who is otherwise always open to anything involving cake and ice cream – doesn’t like being the center of attention like that, people shouting Martin Fitzgerald is thirty-four years old today for anyone to hear. Cards make him uncomfortable; actual presents make him blush and look around for someplace safe, away from all the people watching.
But today, though, it’s Danny’s birthday and it’s just the two of them and a form, and their names on the dotted line.
“You’d better hold up your end of the rent,” Martin tells him, but the smile he can’t quite keep back destroys the threat in his voice. “I’m not going to have my credit score ruined because you’re welshing on your side of the contract.”
“Yeah, well.” He’s too happy – too idiotically, ridiculously, completely happy – to produce a snarky comeback. “Wait – you actually know what your credit score is?”
“It’s important,” Martin says huffily. “Everyone should.”
“Sorry,” Danny says, though his tone says he’s really not. Martin rolls his eyes, but abandons irritation in favor of stepping closer, smile fully there now, and Danny loves it when Martin smiles, when he really, honestly smiles and doesn’t look away.
Martin’s hand is warm, strong where it rests high on Danny’s shoulder near the curve of his neck. Danny likes how Martin’s fingers fit there along vein and tendon and he can feel his own pulse throbbing against the pressure of Martin’s hand. Unspoken, like most of Martin’s requests are – like most conversations worth having – and Danny leans in for a kiss.
Warm, familiar, and he loves how Martin kisses: intense, focused, deep like he hasn’t kissed Danny in ages (it’s been five minutes) and he’s forgotten what it’s like. Teeth sharp on his bottom lip, a moment of pain before Martin returns to kissing him in earnest, fingers lacing through his hair to pull him closer, and Danny’s right hand – now pressed against Martin’s left shoulder blade – tightens reflexively on the paper he’s holding.
“We’re going to crumple it,” Martin says breathlessly, breaking away.
Carefully, Danny sets the rental agreement form on the kitchen table, tries to flatten out a wrinkle in the paper but it doesn’t really work.
The form says they’ve earned the right to live here together for the next year, their own small, two-bedroom section of Queens. One bedroom, one office is more like it, though Danny wonders if their landlady, who looks like she’s been around since the city’s founding, knows about that arrangement. But he doesn’t care at the moment, because this place is theirs, not much space, but it’s got Martin in it and that’s all Danny needs.
“Happy birthday,” Martin says against his mouth, pulling him back in for another kiss.
And Danny, without words, says thank you.
-end.-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG? Angst with fluffy icing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Advertisements: Coincidentally for
wordclaim50 #43 (Touch) and philosophy_20 #1 (Birth).Notes: Angst/fluff for
carrieross on the occasion of her birthday. I'm sorry this is a little late, though it is still your birthday here in the US :D Hope you had a lovely day! *hugs*FORMS
He doesn’t really go in for birthdays now and hasn’t in a while. Way back, right after he’d joined Jack’s team, they’d thrown him a surprise fortieth birthday party, complete with black decorations, a fake prescription for Viagra, and a tombstone-shaped cake, and they’d given Marie a baseball cap with a stuffed vulture on top and I Sleep with the Old Buzzard embroidered on the front. But he’d been new then, still enough of a rookie – and still desperate to impress Agents Malone and Johnson – to hang back with his can of Coke and piece of cake and watch.
There’d been alcohol there, too, and the party had happened right after a horrific case – multiple abductions at area shopping malls, all young girls, all except one found dead – and everything in him had been screaming for a drink. So he’d left after a half hour, before he could convince himself the punch wasn’t really spiked, deliberately ignoring Vivian’s concern and the curiosity of the other agents.
Birthdays... yeah. For six years, from twelve to seventeen, his birthday had been another statistic, something he learned along with his social security number and the address of his case worker’s office. Something held against him, when he heard foster parents talking to Miss Carlyle in her office – He’ll be fourteen this year, and well, he’s that age... You know how difficult teenage boys are, and we just can’t take him now; we’re so busy with our own kids. Something ignored when it came around every year, not that he cared because he was never in one place long enough to really matter to anyone, and he kept telling himself that.
But he could remember enough good ones, when his father would laugh and maybe take them out to dinner, and there would be presents. Not a lot maybe, but some... Enough good ones to make the ones that never happened hurt.
In some ways, the boy Danny Alvarez, born thirty-five years ago today doesn’t exist anymore, hasn’t for seventeen years. He has a form saying so, duly witnessed and signed, saying that from now on he will be Danny Taylor, Danny Taylor who was never orphaned in a car crash and spent years in the system, in the humid prison of South Florida. The only place Danny Taylor’s ever lived is New York City, and sometimes he’s so convinced his life began with Danny Taylor that he can forget that former life, seven years of falling through cracks, stumbling on the crooked pavement of Hialeah. His life started the day he got that paper signed and became someone else.
So he doesn’t believe in birthdays anymore, or hasn’t until recently, when he’s started to find out that they might be good things after all.
Which is odd, because Martin dislikes observing his birthday almost as much as Danny does his own. Privately, Danny suspects Martin – who is otherwise always open to anything involving cake and ice cream – doesn’t like being the center of attention like that, people shouting Martin Fitzgerald is thirty-four years old today for anyone to hear. Cards make him uncomfortable; actual presents make him blush and look around for someplace safe, away from all the people watching.
But today, though, it’s Danny’s birthday and it’s just the two of them and a form, and their names on the dotted line.
“You’d better hold up your end of the rent,” Martin tells him, but the smile he can’t quite keep back destroys the threat in his voice. “I’m not going to have my credit score ruined because you’re welshing on your side of the contract.”
“Yeah, well.” He’s too happy – too idiotically, ridiculously, completely happy – to produce a snarky comeback. “Wait – you actually know what your credit score is?”
“It’s important,” Martin says huffily. “Everyone should.”
“Sorry,” Danny says, though his tone says he’s really not. Martin rolls his eyes, but abandons irritation in favor of stepping closer, smile fully there now, and Danny loves it when Martin smiles, when he really, honestly smiles and doesn’t look away.
Martin’s hand is warm, strong where it rests high on Danny’s shoulder near the curve of his neck. Danny likes how Martin’s fingers fit there along vein and tendon and he can feel his own pulse throbbing against the pressure of Martin’s hand. Unspoken, like most of Martin’s requests are – like most conversations worth having – and Danny leans in for a kiss.
Warm, familiar, and he loves how Martin kisses: intense, focused, deep like he hasn’t kissed Danny in ages (it’s been five minutes) and he’s forgotten what it’s like. Teeth sharp on his bottom lip, a moment of pain before Martin returns to kissing him in earnest, fingers lacing through his hair to pull him closer, and Danny’s right hand – now pressed against Martin’s left shoulder blade – tightens reflexively on the paper he’s holding.
“We’re going to crumple it,” Martin says breathlessly, breaking away.
Carefully, Danny sets the rental agreement form on the kitchen table, tries to flatten out a wrinkle in the paper but it doesn’t really work.
The form says they’ve earned the right to live here together for the next year, their own small, two-bedroom section of Queens. One bedroom, one office is more like it, though Danny wonders if their landlady, who looks like she’s been around since the city’s founding, knows about that arrangement. But he doesn’t care at the moment, because this place is theirs, not much space, but it’s got Martin in it and that’s all Danny needs.
“Happy birthday,” Martin says against his mouth, pulling him back in for another kiss.
And Danny, without words, says thank you.
-end.-