Querido 1/2, for atalentea
Title: Querido
Author: farad
Recipient: atalentea
Rating - NC 17, FRAO, adults only.
Warnings - not a happy story, sorry.
Author’s notes: Beta-ed by a wonderful person who I don’t want you guys to hate for letting me get away with - well, this not being a perfect love. My thanks to her - she’s awesome. Any mistakes are my own, as is the wretchedness of it. Don’t hate me too much.
For Atalentea, who’s getting not quite what she asked for - but it’s what came out. There are two of her four challenged in here:
1. Some case gets the Danny and Martin closer than usual.
3. Something with Elena, preferably her not being what Danny needs.
He doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself watching them. Elena’s hands moving as she talks, but then casually reaching out and touching, one finger dancing along Danny’s shoulder, all fingers sliding along his bright blue tie. Danny’s body moving in just a little too close, even for Danny, his nose almost touching hers, his ear catching in her long hair.
He feels empty.
Someone steps near - Viv, he can smell the soft fragrance of the perfume Marcus gives her for Christmas and her birthday. It’s similar to the one his mother used to wear, when he was still just a kid and she could hug him without his father frowns.
“They think it’s a secret,” Viv laughs, her voice soft even though the plexiglass windows will hold the sound.
Martin shakes his head, trying to think of something to say. The thought that comes slips out before he thinks to stop it. “Were Sam and I . . . . “ He looks at her, seeing surprise in her dark eyes.
Her smile slips a little, softening into something sadder. “No, Martin. Your break-up was the first clue any of us had about the two of you, and that had more to do with Jack’s irritation.” She squeezes his arm. “No, between your insecurity and her . . . well, her - “
“Love for Jack?” Martin supplies. He intends for it to be light and funny, but for some reason, it comes out with a twist of pain that he thought he had put behind him.
Vivian squeezes his arm again. “You never stood a chance,” she says. “She’s a fool, Martin, but it’s probably better for you anyway. No matter how hard you tried, I doubt you could get past the ice around her heart.”
He shrugs but smiles, knowing she’s right. But it still hurts. And hurts worse when he glances back to catch Danny’s hands sliding around Elena’s slender waist.
*&*&*&*&*&*&
“Dammit,” Danny snapped, his open palm slamming on the top of the nearby garbage can.
Martin sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “At least it’s not Father Ted’s body,” he said softly, trying to find something good in finding a dead body in the alleyway.
He was looking at the body of the dead man when Danny kicked the garbage can; the sound was sharp, hard, and startling, and despite himself, Martin jumped, his body contracting around the scars on his torso.
“Goddammit!” Danny yelled, kicking the downed can yet again. Trash spewed out into the alleyway, rank and pulpy in the New York summer heat.
“Danny!” Martin called, breathing hard as his hands trembled. “Hey, man, take it easy!”
Danny kicked out again, but there was less force behind this one. He stood with his hands on his legs, just above his knees, bent, his head down as he tried to get himself together. Eventually, he nodded once. “Call it in,” he muttered. “Goddammit.”
Martin reached for his phone, calling for a coroner and the police, then calling Jack to let him know what’s going on. He never took his eyes off Danny.
Jack arrived soon after the coroner’s van, and Danny met him, his body still rigid with tension.
Martin handled the coroner and the police lieutenant, so he didn’t hear whatever passed between Jack and Danny. Whenever he got a chance to glance at them, Danny was leaning against the building, looking tired, and old, and fragile, and Jack was touching him in that way that says something’s far more wrong than Danny allowed Martin to know.
The emptiness grew a little bigger, a little heavier.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*
He was mired in the paperwork when he felt someone beside him. Dark eyes stared back at him when he looked up and he felt himself tighten.
“Anything?” Danny asked, using his chin to indicate the mess of bills and statements strewn on Martin’s desk.
Martin shook his head. “I don’t think he ran off anywhere. Nothing on his credit cards indicates that he traveled, no new charges anywhere - hell, no charges at all for the past week, not even on his back card. He made one withdrawal of $100.00 five days ago - three days before he went missing, and nothing since.”
Danny leaned against Martin’s desk, rubbing at his eyes. “Shit,” he muttered. “Something’s happened to him. He’s gone.”
Martin swallowed. “Danny, do you know this guy?”
Danny sighed. His eyes were closed and he looked even older than he had several hours ago, in the alley. “Long story,” he answered shortly. He sighed again, then with effort, straightened and pulled himself together. “Let me know if you find anything,” he commanded.
He turned away, his shoulders rigid, and before he thought, Martin said, “If you want to talk - “
“Danny,” Elena called from behind them, and the words dried in his mouth.
She was there then, her short skirt flipping against her thighs as she hurried up to him. Her high heels beat a staccato pattern on the hard floor, each tap driving a sliver of desperation deeper into Martin’s soul.
“Elena,” Danny breathed as he turned to her. Martin thought that the other man’s eyes softened a bit and some of the age slipped away.
He looked away, but not before he saw Danny’s hands reach out to her, one sliding familiarly around her shoulders.
They walked away, murmuring in Spanish. Martin was thankful that his knowledge of the language hadn’t matured to the point that he completely understood what they were saying. It was bad enough that he understood enough to know that she was asking the same thing he had been - and that Danny’s answers to her were longer, more complete.
He focused on the papers, concentrating as hard as he could to try to put something together. He was so deep into it, that it took a him a few seconds to realize that someone else had approached his desk and was now standing behind him.
He looked up to find Sam there, staring past him to where Danny and Elena were still talking. But they were more quiet now, and standing closer, farther into each other’s personal space.
Sam frowned, then looked down to him. She shifted so that she was leaning on the desk, her back to the other two as she whispered, “We weren’t that obvious, were we? I mean - do you think - “
The implication, her concern angered him, and he was harder than he intended. “Viv says no. Something about you being an ice princess and me being a coward.”
He took a little satisfaction from her flinch, but only a little. He really wasn’t that angry with her - his pain was his own damned fault.
“Yeah,” she said with a slight smile. “Sorry.”
He shrugged, looking back down at his desk. “Tell me you’re coming up with something. I’ve got nothing but a headache and sore ass.”
She laughed then. “No, no joy here, either.” Then, in a concession she was unaware she was making, she leaned closer and asked, “What’s up with Danny? This seems to be personal to him.”
So, he thought, this time he wouldn’t be the last to know. He was surprised at how relieved that made him. “Don’t know,” he shrugged again, meeting her eyes. He’d always loved her eyes, so large and expressive and a beautiful shade of blue.
She blinked, and he knew he had surprised her. “I thought you two were . . . . “ But her words trailed away because, really, what could she think?
“He’s busy,” Martin said, looking past her pointedly.
“Apparently so,” she agreed. She stood up, stretching. “Find something,” she slapped his shoulder lightly. “I’d like to find the good father and get the hell out of here.”
He nodded, smiling at her as she walked away. When he looked back, Elena was walking away from Danny, concentrating on the papers in her hand. Her skirt still flipped against her thighs, and he wondered if she was really as good as she advertised, or really as good as Danny wanted.
Didn’t matter, though, the hard little voice in his head snapped. It wasn’t the flipping skirt, it was what was under it. And what wasn’t.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*
There were four of them. The oldest was probably in his early twenties, but he seemed older. Anger and abuse did that. He was the one with the smallest gun, a 22-caliber, Martin thought. But his two knives more than compensated. Especially the long, sharp one that was currently at Danny’s throat.
“You just be still, there, fed-man,” he snarled at Martin. “Kelly, get his gun and anything else he’s got that we can use.”
Martin stood completely still as the largest of the four of them, the one he assumed was Kelly, edged toward him. This one was holding a 44-magnum, the heavy gun looking small in his hand, even as he shoved the barrel of the weapon into the waistband of his worn jeans.
His hands were hard as they searched Martin, wasting no time nor any delicacy as they slapped down his body, twisting him about in his quest to find anything and everything. He took Martin’s cell phone, his handcuffs, everything in his pockets, and then he pulled the suit coat and holster off with such force that he left bruises.
While Kelly searched and poked and prodded, Danny did what he did best - he talked. Martin listened, hoping for something.
“We’re not here to bust you guys,” Danny said calmly. “We’re just looking for Father Ted - you seen him?”
“You trying to save him?” This was from one of the younger ones, a teenager, Martin surmised. But he had the attitude of their leader, his face and voice hard. “Or are you like him, just waiting to find some kid to fuck?”
Kelly was turning Martin around so that Martin could clearly see the anger on his partner’s face.
But Danny’s words were level as he answered, “So you think Father Ted is a child molester?”
“Think?” the boy spat. He walked forward toward Danny, waving his gun around. “I don’t think, faggot, I know. He bent me over his desk enough - “
“Rafael,” the leader called, his voice tight. “Enough. These men don’t care about that - they’re just here because the Church wants to save its ass. Again.” The knife at Danny’s throat bit, leaving a thin line of red. Danny didn’t move, though, acting as if he didn’t feel it.
Martin took a deep breath, trying to keep his own tone easy. “Look, all we want is to get Father Ted back. If he’s hurting kids - if he’s hurt you guys, then we’ll see that it’s stopped.”
There was silence for a second, then all four of the young men burst into laughter, and even a hint of exasperated amusement ghosted over Danny’s face.
“That what you think too, bro?” the knife-wielder asked Danny. “Think the padre will get stopped by The System?”
Danny chuckled, a low rumble Martin rarely heard. His adam’s apple bobbed beneath the silver metal, spiderweb paths of blood stretching slowly along its width. “Ignore Mr. Clean over there,” he muttered, and his eyes held a coldness as he met Martin’s gaze. “I know the same thing you do - the only justice for that man is what we give him ourselves.”
Martin swallowed. This wasn’t the Danny Taylor he knew. He thought that perhaps this might be a ruse of some sort, a way to win the trust of their captors. It was textbook training to find something in common and work it to the agent’s advantage.
But the way Danny was looking at him was new, unfamiliar. Cold, still, but not frigid. There was heat in it, but the heat was from anger and Martin had the disquieting impression that for some reason, Danny was angry with him.
One of Kelly’s big hands caught at Martin’s collar, pulling him up and off-balance. He struggled instinctively, feeling trapped by the fabric as it drew tight around him. “Whatcha wanna do with him?” Kelly asked, his voice a rumble that Martin felt more than heard.
There was silence then, for a few seconds, before someone finally said, “Use his handcuffs, chain him to the pipe over there. No use for any of us to get in any more trouble than necessary.”
The voice was Danny’s, but like the face he had glimpsed seconds ago, it wasn’t one he knew. It, too, was cold, impersonal. And the anger was in it as well, almost as strong as the anger in the voices of their captors.
Martin didn’t have time to dwell on it. Kelly was already pulling him across the rough concrete floor, acting as though his weight, all 175-pounds of it, was nothing.
Training tried to assert itself, and he felt himself cataloging all the possible actions he could take - kicking Kelly in the knee or groin, a surprise attack that would probably let him get free, or relaxing completely which would throw Kelly off-balance, allowing Martin to kick him or even pull him down and get free, or using one of the big man’s abrupt forward steps to launch himself into the large man, using his momentum to topple him over - all good training options, but all precluded by the memory of the knife at Danny’s throat. Even if it was a Danny he didn’t recognize.
Then Kelly shoved him hard, and he barely got his arms up in time to catch himself on the wall, barely managed to keep his head from impacting hard with the cinder blocks. Before he could draw a breath, his right arm was wrenched behind him, his wrist trapped in one ring of his own metal handcuffs. Without thinking, he pulled, trying to get free.
Then his face did hit the wall, Kelly’s huge hand cuffing him and sending him crashing. He didn’t feel pain, not at first; the double impact numbed him, so that he gave no resistance as he was affixed to the pipe, his hands trapped tightly and effectively behind his back. It was only as the sensation of pain returned that he also felt the tickle of blood dribbling down his forehead and left cheek and the split in his lip.
He was on his ass, knees to his chest, shoulders already aching from the pull. He forced his head up and his eyes open even as his ears were already registering things around him. The others were moving away, Danny with them. They were talking, and it took him precious time to realize they were speaking Spanish - all of them. And Danny - Danny was free now. He was talking to the leader of the group, gesturing and arguing, but not with the vehemence he had used earlier. Not with the anger.
Then the younger one was grinning, Kelly was laughing, and the one who had so far said nothing was shaking his head in a sort of disbelief. But the leader, the one who had held the knife to Danny’s throat just minutes before, was holding the knife again - by the blade. So that he could extend it, handle first, toward Danny.
Maybe it had worked - Danny’s tongue had saved them again, gotten them out of another mess.
But the hope died as it was born. The man who took the knife smiled with a grin that made Martin shiver with dread. This was the man he didn’t know. This was the Danny he didn’t trust.
And as that man turned with the same purpose as the other four, those dark, stranger’s eyes caught Martin’s and stared for just an instant. Just long enough for Martin to know that this was the Danny he feared.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
The wait was hell. He had a concussion, he could tell from the time lapses, the distortion of his senses. He was aware of pain, mostly from the pounding in his head, the pressure on his shoulders, and the tearing in his wrists. He knew he was pulling on the handcuffs and in turn, they were butchering the thin skin over hard bones. He also knew that despite the building’s age, the pipe was in good shape. He had used every point of leverage he could manage to pull at it to no avail. As with Kelly, his hundred-seventy-five pounds meant nothing.
He could hear things too - not distinctly, but with enough definition that he worried for Danny. Even if he feared him. Or perhaps because he did, because the man he knew was in their somewhere, and in danger himself, whether it was from the ones he was with or from whatever it was that was driving him.
They were in the basement of a condemned apartment house, the city’s destruction vehicles sitting outside and only inactive because of the strange rains that had hit the area over the past week. Martin tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong, reminding himself over and over that Jack knew about where they were because they had told him about the lead from the telephone repairman who they had finally managed to track down, the repairman who had been to the houses near the rectory the afternoon Father Ted had gone missing.
The repairman who had seen the Father happily leave with four young males from the local Hispanic neighborhood. Further questions in that neighborhood had given Martin ample opportunity to frustrate Danny and himself with his inadequate - but grammatically correct - Spanish, to the point that Danny had told him to shut up. His words - ‘Shut up, Martin, these people aren’t gonna talk to you even if they could understand what you were asking.’
Martin had done as commanded, trying not to feel the sting of his friend’s annoyance. Now, he felt useless and helpless, a combination that rarely boded well for him.
The basement was, for the most part, an open area of concrete, metal, and unfinished walls and ceilings, housing a monstrous air circulation unit, the electrical hub of the building, and the central water piping. Around the outer walls had been constructed what looked to be storage rooms, and it was into one of these that the other five had disappeared. Martin couldn’t see the room itself as sometime in the course of the building’s long history, more of the storage units had been added along a sort of hallway that had eventually become a maze. He could see where the hallway started, but not down into it.
But he could hear it, hear them. The Spanish was loud, and getting louder, and more violent. These boys had a serious issue with Father Ted, and if what they claimed was true, he couldn’t blame them for their anger.
But this wasn’t the way to handle it, and it certainly wasn’t the way for Danny to be acting.
The implications of Danny’s anger weighed on Martin. He didn’t want to think that his friend’s behavior was motivated by the same situation as the other four, but he couldn’t come up with an alternative. And as he sat there, trying and failing at every escape option he could think of, he worried about what Danny was doing in there, and what he would do to protect him when this was all over.
How far he would sell himself.
Then it came with anticipated surprise and hope-crushing finality, the gunshot that silenced everything around him and reset the movement of time. Three others followed, screams and shouts woven around them in an operatic cacophony. A forever of stillness followed, immediately shattered by the propulsion of bodies down the hallway, bursting into the open area with the frenetic energy of pure panic.
They were babbling, all in Spanish, the anger completely gone from them and turning them back into little boys. Even the oldest one, who he thought they kept calling “Manny”, had regressed to confusion and fear.
But he was still the one they turned to when the youngest of them saw and remembered Martin. He gestured, his motions jerky in his terror, and Martin needed no translation to understand, “What do we do with him? Kill him too? He knows us, he - “
Martin found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. It was moving, the hand holding it trembling with adrenalin and emotion and god knew what else - coke or crack or crystal meth - all he saw was flickering blackness that held a physical hurt he remembered too well.
Some part of his brain spewed up the question of whether getting shot in the same places would be helpful or more hurtful - could they cut on him where they already had, would that make things go quicker and easier? Another part reminded him that he was sitting with his knees up, and he felt a flash of relief that his body might be protected - then the flash fizzled as he remembered his head was a better target and that a bullet could destroy his knee and he could be stuck sitting for the rest of his life -
A gunshot, loud, and he realized his eyes had closed and he was waiting for the impact -
And he could clearly hear scuffling and running and muted whimpers fading as the footstep of the boys pounded into the background.
The need to breathe suddenly made him realize that he was not only still alive but no more injured than he had been before that last shot, but he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to open or his body to move, except for his lungs and that seemed to take all of his conscious will as well as the natural instinct of his body.
Something touched him and he jerked, his eyes snapping open and his body trying to uncoil.
“Hey, hey, Martin, it’s me, it’s Danny.”
He was looking into deep brown eyes, familiar in depth and knowledge and worry. The Danny he knew.
He swallowed, or tried to; his mouth was so dry that he couldn’t work up anything. Nor could he speak, as he discovered when he tried and all that came out was a hiss.
But he was with Danny, the man he knew, and speaking wasn’t necessary - Danny could do enough for both of them.
“I’ve called Jack, and an ambulance - they’re on the way. Hang on, let me get you out of those handcuffs - Christ, Martin, you look like hell - how bad do you feel? Here, turn a little - no, let me - “
Then his hands were free and he heard himself give a little cry - funny how his voice could work for that - as his shoulders moved and the metal bands tore free of his broken skin.
“Christ,” Danny muttered again, but he was pressing something against Martin’s forehead - his handkerchief, Martin slowly realized - trying to stop the slow seep from the blood from the cut.
“What happened?” Martin asked, despite the awareness that he probably didn’t want to know.
“You don’t remember?” Danny asked, worry threading his voice. “You got hit in the head - “
“Not to me,” Martin forced out, his throat actually hurting with each word. “You.”
“I’m okay,” Danny answered. He was looking at Martin’s head, not into his eyes, but the evasion was clear in his voice. “I’m more worried about you - “
With effort, Martin reached up and pushed Danny’s hands away from him. “Danny,” he snapped - or tried to. The sound came out uneven, part of it lost in the middle as his air choked away. He started to cough, tried to stop it by sheer strength of will, but it didn’t matter. At that moment, Jack’s voice called from outside, and they both froze.
Danny met his gaze, and Martin saw, finally, the fear in them. It confirmed what he feared - something had happened.
Then quietly but quickly, Danny said, “Don’t assume anything, Martin. Don’t think about it. What you know is all you need to say - and you don’t know anything except what happened in this room. Here.” He caught one of Martin’s hands, drawing it up to hold the cloth against the cut.
Martin used that same hand to catch the sleeve of Danny’s jacket, holding him as he tried to rise. “Danny,” he started, feeling the urgency. “What - “
“Later,” Danny said sharply, pulling himself free.
“But - “
Then the other Danny was in his face, his words sharp and hard, his mouth so close that Martin pulled back too quickly, hitting his head on the pipe. “Don’t push me,” he snarled. “You don’t know anything except what happened in this room. Got it?”
Martin stared, feeling almost as threatened now as he had when the gun was aimed at him.
Danny’s hands were on his shirt then, pulling him closer, too close. “Got it?” he snarled again, and Martin felt those teeth too near his flesh, the words a physical force against his face.
He felt himself nod, a physical response more so than a conscious one, then Danny was gone - both Dannys, all Dannys, whoever the person was that had been holding him.
The adrenalin faded quickly, leaving him in a haze as things around him moved fast. Jack was there first, leaning over him, adding his own handkerchief to the mix as he wiped at the blood on Martin’s wrists and chin. He asked general questions about Martin, worried for him, but Martin could tell by the quick glances in Danny’s direction that his superior had other concerns.
Then the paramedics were there, first dealing with Father Ted who, surprisingly, wasn’t dead, despite the gunshot Martin had heard. But he wasn’t good.
It was while they were dealing with Father Ted and police who had arrived were securing the scene, that Martin looked over to see Jack pinning Danny in a corner. Their conversation was too low for Martin to hear, but the tone was unmistakable in the sharp, hard motions of Jack’s hands, the quick glances thrown by both men in Martin’s direction, and the way that Danny never looked directly at Jack.
Martin tried not to think about the fact that the Danny he didn’t know didn’t seem to appear for Jack. He wondered if that Danny came out for Elena.
At the end of it, Jack shook his head, glaring at Danny, before turning abruptly and walking over to Martin. He crouched down again, and even though he tried to keep it casual, Martin could feel the other man’s tension.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Despite himself, Martin looked over Jack’s shoulder to where Danny was leaning on the wall, staring at nothing.
“Martin? Look at me, not him.” Jack’s tone was flat, his authority unquestionable. “Tell me what happened.”
It was the tone he knew well - it was his father’s tone. Years of training kicked into place and he did exactly that - he told Jack what had happened. Not what he surmised, or guessed, or hoped, or thought, only the specific details of the incident, from the point that he had walked in to find Danny being held at knifepoint to the moment when Danny had appeared before him after he had heard that final fifth gunshot.
“You never saw Father Ted?” Jack asked, his frown receding a little.
“Not until they brought him out here on the gurney,” Martin answered.
“And the boys - all four of them - ran.”
Martin nodded. Unconsciously, he found himself rubbing at his throat.
“You don’t know who fired what shots or when.” It was a statement, really, but Martin nodded his agreement.
Jack sighed. “I can’t imagine it’s been easy. Looking into a gun again - you’ll probably have to see Dr. Harris.”
Martin frowned, as much at the thought of seeing the resident shrink as at Jack’s awareness of its ramifications.
Very softly, Jack said, “If there’s any confusion about this incident, Martin, anything that you aren’t sure you saw or heard or - anything, you know that we all know what you’ve been through. This wasn’t easy for you, and it’s bound to confuse itself with the Dornvald shooting. Just stick to the facts, don’t worry about the stuff you didn’t actually see.”
Martin found himself staring again, trying to decide if he was more hurt or angry by the comments. He blinked, his temper almost winning, when Jack held up a hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know you don’t understand.” He glanced toward Danny then back to Martin. “It’s complicated, and I don’t like it at all. Sometime, when this is over, he’ll explain it. And if he doesn’t, I will. For now . . . .”
“All I know is what happened in this room,” Martin finished for him. His voice was still fading in and out, but the coldness must of gotten through because he saw Jack flinch.
But the older man nodded, once, then pushed himself to his feet. Before he left, though, he leaned back down over Martin. “Thanks.”
One of the paramedics arrived then, and Martin didn’t have time to think of anything except the burn of his torn flesh and the headache that was building to extreme proportions.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
At first, the pain in his head was so bad that he couldn’t register anything outside of his body. It took him - well, a while, he knew, to realize that the pounding he was hearing wasn’t the beating of his heart in the agony of his head, but the buzzing of his cell phone on the table by the bed.
With effort, he got his body to move - not well; he fumbled so much that he almost dropped the phone twice before he managed to get it open to answer it.
“Wha - “ he gasped out, trying to get his arms to work well enough to push himself up.
From habit, he glanced at the beside clock - 2:29 in the morning, the red digital numbers flared back at him.
“Martin? You up?” The voice was Danny’s, but the tone wasn’t what he was accustomed to on the other end of the phone line at this time of the morning.
Stupidly, Martin heard himself croak, “What’s going on? We get a case?”
Danny laughed, the receiver translating it into a noisy barrage of static that didn’t help the pain in his head.
“No, mi mano,” Danny shot back, and Martin heard an edge of annoyance in the voice. “Can’t a friend call another in the middle of the night just to chat?”
Martin almost blew up - his temper was pulsing with the throbbing in his head and every muscle in his body seemed to be aching as well.
“Come on, Marty,” Danny goaded, “Let me guess - pain meds again? Did you maybe take more than one or two, you know, to make it even better - “
“I haven’t taken any,” Martin snarled - but then he knew what Danny was doing. Why Danny was really calling.
The awareness calmed him instantly.
“None?” Danny was still pushing, unaware he’d given himself away. “Come on, Marty, it’s Uncle Danny you’re talking to - I know you better than you know yourself!”
Martin took a deep breath, trying to get his brain to work around the distraction of the pain. “Where are you, Danny?” he asked.
Laughter knifed through his skull and he felt himself sway, glad that he was still in the bed. “Funny thing, mi mano,” Danny laughed. “I’m right here, right outside your door! You wanna prove you’re not stoned out of your mind? Lemme in!”
Good, Martin thought, that should save some time. “Stay put,” he ordered, struggling to push the sheet away and get his body up. “I’ll be right there.” He closed the phone, not really thinking about the fact that he had hung up on Danny; it was more a relief to be able to concentrate on getting himself moving.
It took longer than he expected, his head refusing to allow his body any independent action. He had to think through almost every movement, from getting to his feet to staggering down the hallway. Opening the door was an exercise in coordination, and he almost hit himself in the face when he finally got the knob to turn and all the locks clear.
Danny leaned on the wall beside his door, shoulders slouched, one foot actually braced on the wall itself. He was dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved silk shirt of dark blue, and leather loafers, the ensemble evidence that he had at least gone home between leaving the office and whatever time it was now.
“Little trouble with those hands, Marty?” Danny chuckled, standing. Martin noticed that he had something in his hand, but he didn’t have to ask - Danny thrust it forward proudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold your indiscretion against you - hell, you look like the pain meds aren’t even working!”
Martin didn’t want to think about how he looked - but it was that thought that made him realize he was standing in the doorway in his pajama bottoms and pretty much nothing else.
He stepped back, opening the door wider in as close to an invitation as he could achieve.
It was enough, apparently, as Danny moved in, pushing Martin to one side. “Nice place,” he commented, looking around. “Think of how much you can have for your habit if you downscale.”
Martin swallowed, more at the memory of the night he had done exactly that - considered moving to a smaller, cheaper place for that reason. It seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime he didn’t want to revisit.
Denial was the first thing that came to mind. But all junkies denied, even when it was true. So instead, he asked, “You come by to save me from myself? Or to join me in my fall?”
The words surprised Danny; he wheeled around, his eyes hard as they glared at Martin.
Not giving him the chance to respond, Martin glanced pointedly at the bag in Danny’s hand. “Should I get you a glass? Some ice? A mixer? Or are you drinking straight out of the bottle tonight?”
He waited, watching Danny watch him. Somewhere along the way, the edge of self-consciousness prompted him to cross his arms over his bare chest, but that was the best he could do with appearance. His head was still throbbing, only his strength of will allowing him to get this far.
Eventually, Danny said, “You really didn’t take them, did you.” He shifted, the bottle rubbing against his leg. “Jesus, Martin, you’ve got to be feeling some pain.”
Martin shrugged - or tried to. The movement set off flares in his shoulders and despite himself, he winced. “I’ve felt better,” he acknowledged. Then he sighed. “But I can take aspirin and I think I’m going to.” He eased forward, heading toward the kitchen. As he neared the other man, Danny slowly extended the bottle. He didn’t say anything and Martin didn’t either, merely taking the bag as he moved past, then deliberately setting in on the kitchen table. It was in clear view, but out of easy reach. He was relieved to note that the bottle was unopened, the wax seal still in place. Danny might have bought it, but he hadn’t started drinking yet.
Getting the aspirin was easy; he had left the lid off after fighting with it last night - no, he reminded himself, a mere six hours ago. Getting the refrigerator door open was a bit more problematic, but after several tries, he managed it and kept his balance.
He stood for a minute or so after taking the aspirin, getting himself together, before making his way back to Danny. The other man was sitting on his couch now, his shoes off, his feet on the coffee table, flipping through the channels of Martin’s television. The sound was low, then lowered more as Martin came near.
Danny took the offered bottle of water with a slight nod of his head, his eyes not leaving the television. It was late-night ESPN, some baseball game from the West Coast, Martin noted, but his limited attention was drawn by the discordant scent of something musky and spicy, something familiar but not in the setting of his ho-
Elena.
He had been planning to sit on the couch - his usual spot, on the left side near the end table with the lamp that was his favorite for reading. He found himself in the chair farther away, instead. Away from the reminder of her, and the awareness of where Danny had come from.
So - how the hell had he ended up here?
“Thanks,” Danny mumbled eventually. He didn’t look away from the baseball game. “I’m sorry about today.”
So, that was it. The Big Secret. Martin sipped on his water, until the condensation dripped on his chest, reminding him that he wasn’t dressed.
Reminding him that he had scars now, ones that even he didn’t care to see. He reached behind him for the small blanket he kept folded there, and with only a little difficulty, he draped it over his shoulders and around himself.
Danny seemed to relax slightly, and Martin realized that he had made the other man nervous. It was disconcerting. And embarrassing.
“So you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to accuse me of relapsing because of this damned concussion - so you could apologize for almost getting me killed on your quest to find this priest?” His temper had finally won; by the end of the statement, he was yelling - at least as much as his throat would allow.
But it was loud enough to make Danny finally look at him. “Goddamit,” he swore, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Fuck it,” he continued, shoving his feet back into his shoes before rising. “I’m sorry you got in the middle of it. I told Jack to let me go alone, or with Elena - “
“So you trust her with this but not the rest of us? Because fucking her makes her better able to cover your ass - “
“You leave Elena out of this,” Danny hissed, his hands knotting into fists. “And besides, you did the same thing with Sam - “
Martin was on his own feet now, not sure how he got there, but not really caring. “Sam? Fuck you, Taylor, even you know better! I’ll bet you had a hell of a good laugh knowing that she was still in love with Jack! Oh yeah, I let Sam cover my ass - as long as Jack wasn’t around to make her forget I existed!”
“Leave Jack out of this!” Danny shot back. “He’s done nothing but cover both of our asses - all of our asses - “
“Let me know how you like it when he’s covering Elena’s!”
He knew he was out of line, even as the words came out, but it was too late to call them back, far too late by the time Danny had taken the two steps his long legs needed to put him in Martin’s face.
And somewhere in those two steps, he had turned from the man he had let in the door to the man he had been scared of that morning.
The stranger’s eyes were black with fury, teeth bared in an animalistic heat. Hard fingers dug into his upper arms, holding him still as the other’s body radiated a tension that made Martin’s own body vibrate.
“She has nothing to do with this,” a voice that was Danny’s but not reverberated in his ear. “Neither does he - this is just you and me.”
One of the hands rose, the fingers catching at his hair, catching enough to pull, and his head came back and he was looking into those eyes again -
He felt the other hand leave him, wondered if his face could hurt any worse, the thought that maybe a good punch might knock him out, or even a bad one with the way he was feeling. If Danny hit him on his left side, it might balance the bruises somewhat, keep him from looking quite so distorted -
It wasn’t what he expected. Strong fingers caught his jaw, turning his head, then they were kissing.
But it wasn’t the way Martin had ever kissed before, except maybe a little like some of Sam’s rougher moments. It was brutal - Danny’s teeth biting into his lips, tearing at the cuts from earlier in the day, Danny’s nose bruising as it drove against his, Danny’s hands gripping as they held him in place.
He wasn’t aware of pushing at the other man, wasn’t aware of the force he eventually ended up using, only aware of the instant when they separated and he could breathe. He was blinking, trying to focus around the miasma of pain and shock and fear, so that it was only as Danny rose again that he knew he had shoved the other man, knocking him back to land on the couch.
He stumbled back himself, striving for some physical distance, but tripped on the blanket that had fallen off some time ago. Trying to save himself from a complete debacle, he managed to grab the arm of the chair he had vacated, landing in it ungracefully.
Then Danny was leaning over him, trapping him in the chair with an arm on each side. “Don’t play with me, Marty,” a voice like Danny’s said, as eyes like Danny’s reached into his soul. “Like I said, this is between us. I know you want me - know you’ve wanted me for a long time. This is your chance, mi chico, probably your only one. You wanna waste it on some stupid argument about Jack?”
Martin swallowed, or tried to. His throat was as dry as it had been in the basement. “You - how did you - “
The face like Danny’s laughed, the sound almost authentic. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me, the way you tease me with your eyes, your little smiles? Your little touches when no one else is around? Si, mi amigo, I see what you want.” He leaned closer, and Martin arched away. But there was only so far he could go. “I also see the way you look at Elena - not the way a man looks at a woman he wants, but the way a man looks at another man who’s looking at his woman.” He grinned before running his tongue over his lips. “I assure you, I am no woman. But if you want a man, I can be that for you.”
All the pain in his head, his shoulders - all the pain he had from the bullets that had left the scars on him could not have stopped the rush of blood to his groin.
Danny inched closer, his nose brushing Martin’s. “Isn’t that what you want, compadre? Don’t you want to feel me against you, inside you?”
It was, had been for longer than Martin allowed himself to remember.
But even in the maelstrom of his lust and hope and fantasy, he heard the clanging of his own paranoia and the grinding voice of reason. Not like this. Not this Danny - because no matter how much he looked and sounded and acted like the man he wanted, he was someone else. Someone very different.
“What’s wrong with you?” he managed to ask, even though the words were so indistinct that he wasn’t certain what he actually said. “What are you - “
“Don’t worry about me, Martin,” Danny whispered. His tongue slipped out, touching the corner of Martin’s lips. “I’m doing exactly what you want me to do.”
They were kissing again, but this time - this time it was the way Martin knew. This time, the touch was tentative, experimental, as if Danny might actually want it.
READ: PART TWO
Author: farad
Recipient: atalentea
Rating - NC 17, FRAO, adults only.
Warnings - not a happy story, sorry.
Author’s notes: Beta-ed by a wonderful person who I don’t want you guys to hate for letting me get away with - well, this not being a perfect love. My thanks to her - she’s awesome. Any mistakes are my own, as is the wretchedness of it. Don’t hate me too much.
For Atalentea, who’s getting not quite what she asked for - but it’s what came out. There are two of her four challenged in here:
1. Some case gets the Danny and Martin closer than usual.
3. Something with Elena, preferably her not being what Danny needs.
He doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself watching them. Elena’s hands moving as she talks, but then casually reaching out and touching, one finger dancing along Danny’s shoulder, all fingers sliding along his bright blue tie. Danny’s body moving in just a little too close, even for Danny, his nose almost touching hers, his ear catching in her long hair.
He feels empty.
Someone steps near - Viv, he can smell the soft fragrance of the perfume Marcus gives her for Christmas and her birthday. It’s similar to the one his mother used to wear, when he was still just a kid and she could hug him without his father frowns.
“They think it’s a secret,” Viv laughs, her voice soft even though the plexiglass windows will hold the sound.
Martin shakes his head, trying to think of something to say. The thought that comes slips out before he thinks to stop it. “Were Sam and I . . . . “ He looks at her, seeing surprise in her dark eyes.
Her smile slips a little, softening into something sadder. “No, Martin. Your break-up was the first clue any of us had about the two of you, and that had more to do with Jack’s irritation.” She squeezes his arm. “No, between your insecurity and her . . . well, her - “
“Love for Jack?” Martin supplies. He intends for it to be light and funny, but for some reason, it comes out with a twist of pain that he thought he had put behind him.
Vivian squeezes his arm again. “You never stood a chance,” she says. “She’s a fool, Martin, but it’s probably better for you anyway. No matter how hard you tried, I doubt you could get past the ice around her heart.”
He shrugs but smiles, knowing she’s right. But it still hurts. And hurts worse when he glances back to catch Danny’s hands sliding around Elena’s slender waist.
*&*&*&*&*&*&
“Dammit,” Danny snapped, his open palm slamming on the top of the nearby garbage can.
Martin sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “At least it’s not Father Ted’s body,” he said softly, trying to find something good in finding a dead body in the alleyway.
He was looking at the body of the dead man when Danny kicked the garbage can; the sound was sharp, hard, and startling, and despite himself, Martin jumped, his body contracting around the scars on his torso.
“Goddammit!” Danny yelled, kicking the downed can yet again. Trash spewed out into the alleyway, rank and pulpy in the New York summer heat.
“Danny!” Martin called, breathing hard as his hands trembled. “Hey, man, take it easy!”
Danny kicked out again, but there was less force behind this one. He stood with his hands on his legs, just above his knees, bent, his head down as he tried to get himself together. Eventually, he nodded once. “Call it in,” he muttered. “Goddammit.”
Martin reached for his phone, calling for a coroner and the police, then calling Jack to let him know what’s going on. He never took his eyes off Danny.
Jack arrived soon after the coroner’s van, and Danny met him, his body still rigid with tension.
Martin handled the coroner and the police lieutenant, so he didn’t hear whatever passed between Jack and Danny. Whenever he got a chance to glance at them, Danny was leaning against the building, looking tired, and old, and fragile, and Jack was touching him in that way that says something’s far more wrong than Danny allowed Martin to know.
The emptiness grew a little bigger, a little heavier.
&*&*&*&*&*&*&*
He was mired in the paperwork when he felt someone beside him. Dark eyes stared back at him when he looked up and he felt himself tighten.
“Anything?” Danny asked, using his chin to indicate the mess of bills and statements strewn on Martin’s desk.
Martin shook his head. “I don’t think he ran off anywhere. Nothing on his credit cards indicates that he traveled, no new charges anywhere - hell, no charges at all for the past week, not even on his back card. He made one withdrawal of $100.00 five days ago - three days before he went missing, and nothing since.”
Danny leaned against Martin’s desk, rubbing at his eyes. “Shit,” he muttered. “Something’s happened to him. He’s gone.”
Martin swallowed. “Danny, do you know this guy?”
Danny sighed. His eyes were closed and he looked even older than he had several hours ago, in the alley. “Long story,” he answered shortly. He sighed again, then with effort, straightened and pulled himself together. “Let me know if you find anything,” he commanded.
He turned away, his shoulders rigid, and before he thought, Martin said, “If you want to talk - “
“Danny,” Elena called from behind them, and the words dried in his mouth.
She was there then, her short skirt flipping against her thighs as she hurried up to him. Her high heels beat a staccato pattern on the hard floor, each tap driving a sliver of desperation deeper into Martin’s soul.
“Elena,” Danny breathed as he turned to her. Martin thought that the other man’s eyes softened a bit and some of the age slipped away.
He looked away, but not before he saw Danny’s hands reach out to her, one sliding familiarly around her shoulders.
They walked away, murmuring in Spanish. Martin was thankful that his knowledge of the language hadn’t matured to the point that he completely understood what they were saying. It was bad enough that he understood enough to know that she was asking the same thing he had been - and that Danny’s answers to her were longer, more complete.
He focused on the papers, concentrating as hard as he could to try to put something together. He was so deep into it, that it took a him a few seconds to realize that someone else had approached his desk and was now standing behind him.
He looked up to find Sam there, staring past him to where Danny and Elena were still talking. But they were more quiet now, and standing closer, farther into each other’s personal space.
Sam frowned, then looked down to him. She shifted so that she was leaning on the desk, her back to the other two as she whispered, “We weren’t that obvious, were we? I mean - do you think - “
The implication, her concern angered him, and he was harder than he intended. “Viv says no. Something about you being an ice princess and me being a coward.”
He took a little satisfaction from her flinch, but only a little. He really wasn’t that angry with her - his pain was his own damned fault.
“Yeah,” she said with a slight smile. “Sorry.”
He shrugged, looking back down at his desk. “Tell me you’re coming up with something. I’ve got nothing but a headache and sore ass.”
She laughed then. “No, no joy here, either.” Then, in a concession she was unaware she was making, she leaned closer and asked, “What’s up with Danny? This seems to be personal to him.”
So, he thought, this time he wouldn’t be the last to know. He was surprised at how relieved that made him. “Don’t know,” he shrugged again, meeting her eyes. He’d always loved her eyes, so large and expressive and a beautiful shade of blue.
She blinked, and he knew he had surprised her. “I thought you two were . . . . “ But her words trailed away because, really, what could she think?
“He’s busy,” Martin said, looking past her pointedly.
“Apparently so,” she agreed. She stood up, stretching. “Find something,” she slapped his shoulder lightly. “I’d like to find the good father and get the hell out of here.”
He nodded, smiling at her as she walked away. When he looked back, Elena was walking away from Danny, concentrating on the papers in her hand. Her skirt still flipped against her thighs, and he wondered if she was really as good as she advertised, or really as good as Danny wanted.
Didn’t matter, though, the hard little voice in his head snapped. It wasn’t the flipping skirt, it was what was under it. And what wasn’t.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*
There were four of them. The oldest was probably in his early twenties, but he seemed older. Anger and abuse did that. He was the one with the smallest gun, a 22-caliber, Martin thought. But his two knives more than compensated. Especially the long, sharp one that was currently at Danny’s throat.
“You just be still, there, fed-man,” he snarled at Martin. “Kelly, get his gun and anything else he’s got that we can use.”
Martin stood completely still as the largest of the four of them, the one he assumed was Kelly, edged toward him. This one was holding a 44-magnum, the heavy gun looking small in his hand, even as he shoved the barrel of the weapon into the waistband of his worn jeans.
His hands were hard as they searched Martin, wasting no time nor any delicacy as they slapped down his body, twisting him about in his quest to find anything and everything. He took Martin’s cell phone, his handcuffs, everything in his pockets, and then he pulled the suit coat and holster off with such force that he left bruises.
While Kelly searched and poked and prodded, Danny did what he did best - he talked. Martin listened, hoping for something.
“We’re not here to bust you guys,” Danny said calmly. “We’re just looking for Father Ted - you seen him?”
“You trying to save him?” This was from one of the younger ones, a teenager, Martin surmised. But he had the attitude of their leader, his face and voice hard. “Or are you like him, just waiting to find some kid to fuck?”
Kelly was turning Martin around so that Martin could clearly see the anger on his partner’s face.
But Danny’s words were level as he answered, “So you think Father Ted is a child molester?”
“Think?” the boy spat. He walked forward toward Danny, waving his gun around. “I don’t think, faggot, I know. He bent me over his desk enough - “
“Rafael,” the leader called, his voice tight. “Enough. These men don’t care about that - they’re just here because the Church wants to save its ass. Again.” The knife at Danny’s throat bit, leaving a thin line of red. Danny didn’t move, though, acting as if he didn’t feel it.
Martin took a deep breath, trying to keep his own tone easy. “Look, all we want is to get Father Ted back. If he’s hurting kids - if he’s hurt you guys, then we’ll see that it’s stopped.”
There was silence for a second, then all four of the young men burst into laughter, and even a hint of exasperated amusement ghosted over Danny’s face.
“That what you think too, bro?” the knife-wielder asked Danny. “Think the padre will get stopped by The System?”
Danny chuckled, a low rumble Martin rarely heard. His adam’s apple bobbed beneath the silver metal, spiderweb paths of blood stretching slowly along its width. “Ignore Mr. Clean over there,” he muttered, and his eyes held a coldness as he met Martin’s gaze. “I know the same thing you do - the only justice for that man is what we give him ourselves.”
Martin swallowed. This wasn’t the Danny Taylor he knew. He thought that perhaps this might be a ruse of some sort, a way to win the trust of their captors. It was textbook training to find something in common and work it to the agent’s advantage.
But the way Danny was looking at him was new, unfamiliar. Cold, still, but not frigid. There was heat in it, but the heat was from anger and Martin had the disquieting impression that for some reason, Danny was angry with him.
One of Kelly’s big hands caught at Martin’s collar, pulling him up and off-balance. He struggled instinctively, feeling trapped by the fabric as it drew tight around him. “Whatcha wanna do with him?” Kelly asked, his voice a rumble that Martin felt more than heard.
There was silence then, for a few seconds, before someone finally said, “Use his handcuffs, chain him to the pipe over there. No use for any of us to get in any more trouble than necessary.”
The voice was Danny’s, but like the face he had glimpsed seconds ago, it wasn’t one he knew. It, too, was cold, impersonal. And the anger was in it as well, almost as strong as the anger in the voices of their captors.
Martin didn’t have time to dwell on it. Kelly was already pulling him across the rough concrete floor, acting as though his weight, all 175-pounds of it, was nothing.
Training tried to assert itself, and he felt himself cataloging all the possible actions he could take - kicking Kelly in the knee or groin, a surprise attack that would probably let him get free, or relaxing completely which would throw Kelly off-balance, allowing Martin to kick him or even pull him down and get free, or using one of the big man’s abrupt forward steps to launch himself into the large man, using his momentum to topple him over - all good training options, but all precluded by the memory of the knife at Danny’s throat. Even if it was a Danny he didn’t recognize.
Then Kelly shoved him hard, and he barely got his arms up in time to catch himself on the wall, barely managed to keep his head from impacting hard with the cinder blocks. Before he could draw a breath, his right arm was wrenched behind him, his wrist trapped in one ring of his own metal handcuffs. Without thinking, he pulled, trying to get free.
Then his face did hit the wall, Kelly’s huge hand cuffing him and sending him crashing. He didn’t feel pain, not at first; the double impact numbed him, so that he gave no resistance as he was affixed to the pipe, his hands trapped tightly and effectively behind his back. It was only as the sensation of pain returned that he also felt the tickle of blood dribbling down his forehead and left cheek and the split in his lip.
He was on his ass, knees to his chest, shoulders already aching from the pull. He forced his head up and his eyes open even as his ears were already registering things around him. The others were moving away, Danny with them. They were talking, and it took him precious time to realize they were speaking Spanish - all of them. And Danny - Danny was free now. He was talking to the leader of the group, gesturing and arguing, but not with the vehemence he had used earlier. Not with the anger.
Then the younger one was grinning, Kelly was laughing, and the one who had so far said nothing was shaking his head in a sort of disbelief. But the leader, the one who had held the knife to Danny’s throat just minutes before, was holding the knife again - by the blade. So that he could extend it, handle first, toward Danny.
Maybe it had worked - Danny’s tongue had saved them again, gotten them out of another mess.
But the hope died as it was born. The man who took the knife smiled with a grin that made Martin shiver with dread. This was the man he didn’t know. This was the Danny he didn’t trust.
And as that man turned with the same purpose as the other four, those dark, stranger’s eyes caught Martin’s and stared for just an instant. Just long enough for Martin to know that this was the Danny he feared.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
The wait was hell. He had a concussion, he could tell from the time lapses, the distortion of his senses. He was aware of pain, mostly from the pounding in his head, the pressure on his shoulders, and the tearing in his wrists. He knew he was pulling on the handcuffs and in turn, they were butchering the thin skin over hard bones. He also knew that despite the building’s age, the pipe was in good shape. He had used every point of leverage he could manage to pull at it to no avail. As with Kelly, his hundred-seventy-five pounds meant nothing.
He could hear things too - not distinctly, but with enough definition that he worried for Danny. Even if he feared him. Or perhaps because he did, because the man he knew was in their somewhere, and in danger himself, whether it was from the ones he was with or from whatever it was that was driving him.
They were in the basement of a condemned apartment house, the city’s destruction vehicles sitting outside and only inactive because of the strange rains that had hit the area over the past week. Martin tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong, reminding himself over and over that Jack knew about where they were because they had told him about the lead from the telephone repairman who they had finally managed to track down, the repairman who had been to the houses near the rectory the afternoon Father Ted had gone missing.
The repairman who had seen the Father happily leave with four young males from the local Hispanic neighborhood. Further questions in that neighborhood had given Martin ample opportunity to frustrate Danny and himself with his inadequate - but grammatically correct - Spanish, to the point that Danny had told him to shut up. His words - ‘Shut up, Martin, these people aren’t gonna talk to you even if they could understand what you were asking.’
Martin had done as commanded, trying not to feel the sting of his friend’s annoyance. Now, he felt useless and helpless, a combination that rarely boded well for him.
The basement was, for the most part, an open area of concrete, metal, and unfinished walls and ceilings, housing a monstrous air circulation unit, the electrical hub of the building, and the central water piping. Around the outer walls had been constructed what looked to be storage rooms, and it was into one of these that the other five had disappeared. Martin couldn’t see the room itself as sometime in the course of the building’s long history, more of the storage units had been added along a sort of hallway that had eventually become a maze. He could see where the hallway started, but not down into it.
But he could hear it, hear them. The Spanish was loud, and getting louder, and more violent. These boys had a serious issue with Father Ted, and if what they claimed was true, he couldn’t blame them for their anger.
But this wasn’t the way to handle it, and it certainly wasn’t the way for Danny to be acting.
The implications of Danny’s anger weighed on Martin. He didn’t want to think that his friend’s behavior was motivated by the same situation as the other four, but he couldn’t come up with an alternative. And as he sat there, trying and failing at every escape option he could think of, he worried about what Danny was doing in there, and what he would do to protect him when this was all over.
How far he would sell himself.
Then it came with anticipated surprise and hope-crushing finality, the gunshot that silenced everything around him and reset the movement of time. Three others followed, screams and shouts woven around them in an operatic cacophony. A forever of stillness followed, immediately shattered by the propulsion of bodies down the hallway, bursting into the open area with the frenetic energy of pure panic.
They were babbling, all in Spanish, the anger completely gone from them and turning them back into little boys. Even the oldest one, who he thought they kept calling “Manny”, had regressed to confusion and fear.
But he was still the one they turned to when the youngest of them saw and remembered Martin. He gestured, his motions jerky in his terror, and Martin needed no translation to understand, “What do we do with him? Kill him too? He knows us, he - “
Martin found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. It was moving, the hand holding it trembling with adrenalin and emotion and god knew what else - coke or crack or crystal meth - all he saw was flickering blackness that held a physical hurt he remembered too well.
Some part of his brain spewed up the question of whether getting shot in the same places would be helpful or more hurtful - could they cut on him where they already had, would that make things go quicker and easier? Another part reminded him that he was sitting with his knees up, and he felt a flash of relief that his body might be protected - then the flash fizzled as he remembered his head was a better target and that a bullet could destroy his knee and he could be stuck sitting for the rest of his life -
A gunshot, loud, and he realized his eyes had closed and he was waiting for the impact -
And he could clearly hear scuffling and running and muted whimpers fading as the footstep of the boys pounded into the background.
The need to breathe suddenly made him realize that he was not only still alive but no more injured than he had been before that last shot, but he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to open or his body to move, except for his lungs and that seemed to take all of his conscious will as well as the natural instinct of his body.
Something touched him and he jerked, his eyes snapping open and his body trying to uncoil.
“Hey, hey, Martin, it’s me, it’s Danny.”
He was looking into deep brown eyes, familiar in depth and knowledge and worry. The Danny he knew.
He swallowed, or tried to; his mouth was so dry that he couldn’t work up anything. Nor could he speak, as he discovered when he tried and all that came out was a hiss.
But he was with Danny, the man he knew, and speaking wasn’t necessary - Danny could do enough for both of them.
“I’ve called Jack, and an ambulance - they’re on the way. Hang on, let me get you out of those handcuffs - Christ, Martin, you look like hell - how bad do you feel? Here, turn a little - no, let me - “
Then his hands were free and he heard himself give a little cry - funny how his voice could work for that - as his shoulders moved and the metal bands tore free of his broken skin.
“Christ,” Danny muttered again, but he was pressing something against Martin’s forehead - his handkerchief, Martin slowly realized - trying to stop the slow seep from the blood from the cut.
“What happened?” Martin asked, despite the awareness that he probably didn’t want to know.
“You don’t remember?” Danny asked, worry threading his voice. “You got hit in the head - “
“Not to me,” Martin forced out, his throat actually hurting with each word. “You.”
“I’m okay,” Danny answered. He was looking at Martin’s head, not into his eyes, but the evasion was clear in his voice. “I’m more worried about you - “
With effort, Martin reached up and pushed Danny’s hands away from him. “Danny,” he snapped - or tried to. The sound came out uneven, part of it lost in the middle as his air choked away. He started to cough, tried to stop it by sheer strength of will, but it didn’t matter. At that moment, Jack’s voice called from outside, and they both froze.
Danny met his gaze, and Martin saw, finally, the fear in them. It confirmed what he feared - something had happened.
Then quietly but quickly, Danny said, “Don’t assume anything, Martin. Don’t think about it. What you know is all you need to say - and you don’t know anything except what happened in this room. Here.” He caught one of Martin’s hands, drawing it up to hold the cloth against the cut.
Martin used that same hand to catch the sleeve of Danny’s jacket, holding him as he tried to rise. “Danny,” he started, feeling the urgency. “What - “
“Later,” Danny said sharply, pulling himself free.
“But - “
Then the other Danny was in his face, his words sharp and hard, his mouth so close that Martin pulled back too quickly, hitting his head on the pipe. “Don’t push me,” he snarled. “You don’t know anything except what happened in this room. Got it?”
Martin stared, feeling almost as threatened now as he had when the gun was aimed at him.
Danny’s hands were on his shirt then, pulling him closer, too close. “Got it?” he snarled again, and Martin felt those teeth too near his flesh, the words a physical force against his face.
He felt himself nod, a physical response more so than a conscious one, then Danny was gone - both Dannys, all Dannys, whoever the person was that had been holding him.
The adrenalin faded quickly, leaving him in a haze as things around him moved fast. Jack was there first, leaning over him, adding his own handkerchief to the mix as he wiped at the blood on Martin’s wrists and chin. He asked general questions about Martin, worried for him, but Martin could tell by the quick glances in Danny’s direction that his superior had other concerns.
Then the paramedics were there, first dealing with Father Ted who, surprisingly, wasn’t dead, despite the gunshot Martin had heard. But he wasn’t good.
It was while they were dealing with Father Ted and police who had arrived were securing the scene, that Martin looked over to see Jack pinning Danny in a corner. Their conversation was too low for Martin to hear, but the tone was unmistakable in the sharp, hard motions of Jack’s hands, the quick glances thrown by both men in Martin’s direction, and the way that Danny never looked directly at Jack.
Martin tried not to think about the fact that the Danny he didn’t know didn’t seem to appear for Jack. He wondered if that Danny came out for Elena.
At the end of it, Jack shook his head, glaring at Danny, before turning abruptly and walking over to Martin. He crouched down again, and even though he tried to keep it casual, Martin could feel the other man’s tension.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Despite himself, Martin looked over Jack’s shoulder to where Danny was leaning on the wall, staring at nothing.
“Martin? Look at me, not him.” Jack’s tone was flat, his authority unquestionable. “Tell me what happened.”
It was the tone he knew well - it was his father’s tone. Years of training kicked into place and he did exactly that - he told Jack what had happened. Not what he surmised, or guessed, or hoped, or thought, only the specific details of the incident, from the point that he had walked in to find Danny being held at knifepoint to the moment when Danny had appeared before him after he had heard that final fifth gunshot.
“You never saw Father Ted?” Jack asked, his frown receding a little.
“Not until they brought him out here on the gurney,” Martin answered.
“And the boys - all four of them - ran.”
Martin nodded. Unconsciously, he found himself rubbing at his throat.
“You don’t know who fired what shots or when.” It was a statement, really, but Martin nodded his agreement.
Jack sighed. “I can’t imagine it’s been easy. Looking into a gun again - you’ll probably have to see Dr. Harris.”
Martin frowned, as much at the thought of seeing the resident shrink as at Jack’s awareness of its ramifications.
Very softly, Jack said, “If there’s any confusion about this incident, Martin, anything that you aren’t sure you saw or heard or - anything, you know that we all know what you’ve been through. This wasn’t easy for you, and it’s bound to confuse itself with the Dornvald shooting. Just stick to the facts, don’t worry about the stuff you didn’t actually see.”
Martin found himself staring again, trying to decide if he was more hurt or angry by the comments. He blinked, his temper almost winning, when Jack held up a hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know you don’t understand.” He glanced toward Danny then back to Martin. “It’s complicated, and I don’t like it at all. Sometime, when this is over, he’ll explain it. And if he doesn’t, I will. For now . . . .”
“All I know is what happened in this room,” Martin finished for him. His voice was still fading in and out, but the coldness must of gotten through because he saw Jack flinch.
But the older man nodded, once, then pushed himself to his feet. Before he left, though, he leaned back down over Martin. “Thanks.”
One of the paramedics arrived then, and Martin didn’t have time to think of anything except the burn of his torn flesh and the headache that was building to extreme proportions.
*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&
At first, the pain in his head was so bad that he couldn’t register anything outside of his body. It took him - well, a while, he knew, to realize that the pounding he was hearing wasn’t the beating of his heart in the agony of his head, but the buzzing of his cell phone on the table by the bed.
With effort, he got his body to move - not well; he fumbled so much that he almost dropped the phone twice before he managed to get it open to answer it.
“Wha - “ he gasped out, trying to get his arms to work well enough to push himself up.
From habit, he glanced at the beside clock - 2:29 in the morning, the red digital numbers flared back at him.
“Martin? You up?” The voice was Danny’s, but the tone wasn’t what he was accustomed to on the other end of the phone line at this time of the morning.
Stupidly, Martin heard himself croak, “What’s going on? We get a case?”
Danny laughed, the receiver translating it into a noisy barrage of static that didn’t help the pain in his head.
“No, mi mano,” Danny shot back, and Martin heard an edge of annoyance in the voice. “Can’t a friend call another in the middle of the night just to chat?”
Martin almost blew up - his temper was pulsing with the throbbing in his head and every muscle in his body seemed to be aching as well.
“Come on, Marty,” Danny goaded, “Let me guess - pain meds again? Did you maybe take more than one or two, you know, to make it even better - “
“I haven’t taken any,” Martin snarled - but then he knew what Danny was doing. Why Danny was really calling.
The awareness calmed him instantly.
“None?” Danny was still pushing, unaware he’d given himself away. “Come on, Marty, it’s Uncle Danny you’re talking to - I know you better than you know yourself!”
Martin took a deep breath, trying to get his brain to work around the distraction of the pain. “Where are you, Danny?” he asked.
Laughter knifed through his skull and he felt himself sway, glad that he was still in the bed. “Funny thing, mi mano,” Danny laughed. “I’m right here, right outside your door! You wanna prove you’re not stoned out of your mind? Lemme in!”
Good, Martin thought, that should save some time. “Stay put,” he ordered, struggling to push the sheet away and get his body up. “I’ll be right there.” He closed the phone, not really thinking about the fact that he had hung up on Danny; it was more a relief to be able to concentrate on getting himself moving.
It took longer than he expected, his head refusing to allow his body any independent action. He had to think through almost every movement, from getting to his feet to staggering down the hallway. Opening the door was an exercise in coordination, and he almost hit himself in the face when he finally got the knob to turn and all the locks clear.
Danny leaned on the wall beside his door, shoulders slouched, one foot actually braced on the wall itself. He was dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved silk shirt of dark blue, and leather loafers, the ensemble evidence that he had at least gone home between leaving the office and whatever time it was now.
“Little trouble with those hands, Marty?” Danny chuckled, standing. Martin noticed that he had something in his hand, but he didn’t have to ask - Danny thrust it forward proudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold your indiscretion against you - hell, you look like the pain meds aren’t even working!”
Martin didn’t want to think about how he looked - but it was that thought that made him realize he was standing in the doorway in his pajama bottoms and pretty much nothing else.
He stepped back, opening the door wider in as close to an invitation as he could achieve.
It was enough, apparently, as Danny moved in, pushing Martin to one side. “Nice place,” he commented, looking around. “Think of how much you can have for your habit if you downscale.”
Martin swallowed, more at the memory of the night he had done exactly that - considered moving to a smaller, cheaper place for that reason. It seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime he didn’t want to revisit.
Denial was the first thing that came to mind. But all junkies denied, even when it was true. So instead, he asked, “You come by to save me from myself? Or to join me in my fall?”
The words surprised Danny; he wheeled around, his eyes hard as they glared at Martin.
Not giving him the chance to respond, Martin glanced pointedly at the bag in Danny’s hand. “Should I get you a glass? Some ice? A mixer? Or are you drinking straight out of the bottle tonight?”
He waited, watching Danny watch him. Somewhere along the way, the edge of self-consciousness prompted him to cross his arms over his bare chest, but that was the best he could do with appearance. His head was still throbbing, only his strength of will allowing him to get this far.
Eventually, Danny said, “You really didn’t take them, did you.” He shifted, the bottle rubbing against his leg. “Jesus, Martin, you’ve got to be feeling some pain.”
Martin shrugged - or tried to. The movement set off flares in his shoulders and despite himself, he winced. “I’ve felt better,” he acknowledged. Then he sighed. “But I can take aspirin and I think I’m going to.” He eased forward, heading toward the kitchen. As he neared the other man, Danny slowly extended the bottle. He didn’t say anything and Martin didn’t either, merely taking the bag as he moved past, then deliberately setting in on the kitchen table. It was in clear view, but out of easy reach. He was relieved to note that the bottle was unopened, the wax seal still in place. Danny might have bought it, but he hadn’t started drinking yet.
Getting the aspirin was easy; he had left the lid off after fighting with it last night - no, he reminded himself, a mere six hours ago. Getting the refrigerator door open was a bit more problematic, but after several tries, he managed it and kept his balance.
He stood for a minute or so after taking the aspirin, getting himself together, before making his way back to Danny. The other man was sitting on his couch now, his shoes off, his feet on the coffee table, flipping through the channels of Martin’s television. The sound was low, then lowered more as Martin came near.
Danny took the offered bottle of water with a slight nod of his head, his eyes not leaving the television. It was late-night ESPN, some baseball game from the West Coast, Martin noted, but his limited attention was drawn by the discordant scent of something musky and spicy, something familiar but not in the setting of his ho-
Elena.
He had been planning to sit on the couch - his usual spot, on the left side near the end table with the lamp that was his favorite for reading. He found himself in the chair farther away, instead. Away from the reminder of her, and the awareness of where Danny had come from.
So - how the hell had he ended up here?
“Thanks,” Danny mumbled eventually. He didn’t look away from the baseball game. “I’m sorry about today.”
So, that was it. The Big Secret. Martin sipped on his water, until the condensation dripped on his chest, reminding him that he wasn’t dressed.
Reminding him that he had scars now, ones that even he didn’t care to see. He reached behind him for the small blanket he kept folded there, and with only a little difficulty, he draped it over his shoulders and around himself.
Danny seemed to relax slightly, and Martin realized that he had made the other man nervous. It was disconcerting. And embarrassing.
“So you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to accuse me of relapsing because of this damned concussion - so you could apologize for almost getting me killed on your quest to find this priest?” His temper had finally won; by the end of the statement, he was yelling - at least as much as his throat would allow.
But it was loud enough to make Danny finally look at him. “Goddamit,” he swore, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Fuck it,” he continued, shoving his feet back into his shoes before rising. “I’m sorry you got in the middle of it. I told Jack to let me go alone, or with Elena - “
“So you trust her with this but not the rest of us? Because fucking her makes her better able to cover your ass - “
“You leave Elena out of this,” Danny hissed, his hands knotting into fists. “And besides, you did the same thing with Sam - “
Martin was on his own feet now, not sure how he got there, but not really caring. “Sam? Fuck you, Taylor, even you know better! I’ll bet you had a hell of a good laugh knowing that she was still in love with Jack! Oh yeah, I let Sam cover my ass - as long as Jack wasn’t around to make her forget I existed!”
“Leave Jack out of this!” Danny shot back. “He’s done nothing but cover both of our asses - all of our asses - “
“Let me know how you like it when he’s covering Elena’s!”
He knew he was out of line, even as the words came out, but it was too late to call them back, far too late by the time Danny had taken the two steps his long legs needed to put him in Martin’s face.
And somewhere in those two steps, he had turned from the man he had let in the door to the man he had been scared of that morning.
The stranger’s eyes were black with fury, teeth bared in an animalistic heat. Hard fingers dug into his upper arms, holding him still as the other’s body radiated a tension that made Martin’s own body vibrate.
“She has nothing to do with this,” a voice that was Danny’s but not reverberated in his ear. “Neither does he - this is just you and me.”
One of the hands rose, the fingers catching at his hair, catching enough to pull, and his head came back and he was looking into those eyes again -
He felt the other hand leave him, wondered if his face could hurt any worse, the thought that maybe a good punch might knock him out, or even a bad one with the way he was feeling. If Danny hit him on his left side, it might balance the bruises somewhat, keep him from looking quite so distorted -
It wasn’t what he expected. Strong fingers caught his jaw, turning his head, then they were kissing.
But it wasn’t the way Martin had ever kissed before, except maybe a little like some of Sam’s rougher moments. It was brutal - Danny’s teeth biting into his lips, tearing at the cuts from earlier in the day, Danny’s nose bruising as it drove against his, Danny’s hands gripping as they held him in place.
He wasn’t aware of pushing at the other man, wasn’t aware of the force he eventually ended up using, only aware of the instant when they separated and he could breathe. He was blinking, trying to focus around the miasma of pain and shock and fear, so that it was only as Danny rose again that he knew he had shoved the other man, knocking him back to land on the couch.
He stumbled back himself, striving for some physical distance, but tripped on the blanket that had fallen off some time ago. Trying to save himself from a complete debacle, he managed to grab the arm of the chair he had vacated, landing in it ungracefully.
Then Danny was leaning over him, trapping him in the chair with an arm on each side. “Don’t play with me, Marty,” a voice like Danny’s said, as eyes like Danny’s reached into his soul. “Like I said, this is between us. I know you want me - know you’ve wanted me for a long time. This is your chance, mi chico, probably your only one. You wanna waste it on some stupid argument about Jack?”
Martin swallowed, or tried to. His throat was as dry as it had been in the basement. “You - how did you - “
The face like Danny’s laughed, the sound almost authentic. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me, the way you tease me with your eyes, your little smiles? Your little touches when no one else is around? Si, mi amigo, I see what you want.” He leaned closer, and Martin arched away. But there was only so far he could go. “I also see the way you look at Elena - not the way a man looks at a woman he wants, but the way a man looks at another man who’s looking at his woman.” He grinned before running his tongue over his lips. “I assure you, I am no woman. But if you want a man, I can be that for you.”
All the pain in his head, his shoulders - all the pain he had from the bullets that had left the scars on him could not have stopped the rush of blood to his groin.
Danny inched closer, his nose brushing Martin’s. “Isn’t that what you want, compadre? Don’t you want to feel me against you, inside you?”
It was, had been for longer than Martin allowed himself to remember.
But even in the maelstrom of his lust and hope and fantasy, he heard the clanging of his own paranoia and the grinding voice of reason. Not like this. Not this Danny - because no matter how much he looked and sounded and acted like the man he wanted, he was someone else. Someone very different.
“What’s wrong with you?” he managed to ask, even though the words were so indistinct that he wasn’t certain what he actually said. “What are you - “
“Don’t worry about me, Martin,” Danny whispered. His tongue slipped out, touching the corner of Martin’s lips. “I’m doing exactly what you want me to do.”
They were kissing again, but this time - this time it was the way Martin knew. This time, the touch was tentative, experimental, as if Danny might actually want it.
READ: PART TWO