FIC: Dare Not Speak Its Name
Dare Not Speak Its Name
Author’s note: This is a sequel to Control and exists thanks to tawg’s encouragement.
Danny sits on the couch, is about to cross his legs, doesn’t, then crosses his arms and leans back. He examines the books on the bookcase and wonders if she’s actually read all those books. The room is beige, lots of beige furniture, beige carpet, and beige walls. It is in fact, the blandest room he’s ever seen. Danny supposes it’s to make him relax, but the room’s sheer determination to be trust worthy makes it more circumspect. If it had eyes, they would be beady little eyes shifting back and forth.
“Um, am I supposed to lie down?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Danny.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll just sit.”
Dr. Stottlemeyer gives him a reassuring smile and pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. The first time Danny was here he was telling Stottlemeyer about himself and deciding whether or not they were compatible. Her words, not Danny’s. In that eye-opening hour they discovered he’s depressed (well duh) and was referred to him by the Department.
Apparently, if cops do one of those cool shoot-em-ups they have to fill out a psych-evaluation form. Danny remembers getting one in the hospital and checking every little box with the word “NO” next to it. That was some time ago.
Two weeks ago he woke up in the middle of the night in a total panic. If he was dreaming he doesn’t remember it. He’s not sure how long he lay there awake, unsure of where he was, just afraid for no particular reason at all.
Danny suspects he’s going crazy, but personally thinks therapy is a lot of bullshit. Just a bunch so called “doctors” talking out of their bum trumpets. Therapy, pills, and her family’s love hadn’t helped his Mother any, so what would this accomplish?
He remembers many days of his Mum lying down and looking overwhelmed and wishing she’d just get over it already and pay attention to him. He shouldn’t have, he knows, and better understands it now even if he’ll never understand her reasons for doing what she did. That’s a mystery he’ll never solve.
“I, um, I guess I need to talk to someone. And I think it’s because of my Dad.” Danny let’s out a small, inaudible gasp. He looks down at the beige carpet and the little wiggly patterns the threads make. This is going to be impossible.
After awhile Dr. Stottlemeyer says, “What happened?” She recaptures his gaze, leans forward.
“He’s in prison,” Danny says slowly and goes back to studying the bookcase. “He, uh-he was an NWA member in Sandford. You probably seen it on the news. It’s up to thirty-seven, but we’re still looking for more.”
Danny can feel the sudden heat on his face, his eyes filled, but he didn’t make a sound. His face didn’t fall.
The session is only fifteen minutes. When it’s over he feels tired again. Danny mumbles a good-bye. When he goes out in to the waiting room Nicholas has a magazine in his lap, but is looking out the window instead. His face is drawn and he’s sun burnt from running around Reaper’s farm looking for Forrest Welker for three days, but hadn’t any luck. Danny has to tap him on the shoulder before he snaps out of his “serious thinking” mode.
“Ready to go,” he asks.
“Yeah.”
They leave the office. In the elevator Nick puts an arm around Danny’s shoulder. Standing this close Danny can smell the aftershave and it travels into his brain, which tells the stomach to flutter and the heart to go a little faster. Danny mentioned Nicholas to Stottlemeyer, but only in passing and left a lot of it out.
It would surprise some people that Nicholas is a rather tender hearted person. He goes to great lengths to hide it which is a pity because people would like the passionate, bookish, part-time vegetarian person that he is. He’s the guy you call in an emergency, the guy that holds the door open, the guy who sits at your sickbed and reads to you. The guy, who, yes it’s true, helps little old ladies cross the street.
And yes, he is as uptight as he looks, but Danny’s working on it. He will slowly but surely corrupt Nicholas Angel if it’s the last thing he ever does. Danny remembers running after him, watching Nicholas do that nifty back flip over a fence, and thinking to himself, Whoa, buddy, what are you? He’s been chasing that ass ever since.
Danny has imagined Nick from all angles, top and bottom, soft kisses to triple-x hardcore action. He is, in fact, fully prepared to go to hell for Nick if just once all that passion were directed at him.
Not gay, he’s not-gay gay, not weak wrist gay. He will never say the word “fabulous” and carry a teeny little dog around that shakes and pisses on itself anytime you pet it. He will not redecorate a house or give someone a make-over. And for God’s sake, Danny will swear he got his first pubic hair after watching Eve Draper eat a hot dog, so it’s not like he’s a total queer.
He hears that Simon Skinner gets five marriage proposals a day while in jail. Number of marriage proposals to Danny Butterman? Zero. Not even taking a bullet is going to make Nicholas suddenly gay for him. It just won’t happen.
“So what’s the plan today,” Danny asks. Work. He’ll just talk about work. It’s the safest topic that he can think of these days and he is genuinely interested for the first time in his life, even if he only gets to hear about it. But it’s gotten to the point where even Nicholas wants to change the subject and he loves talking about work.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do tonight?”
“I mean the farm.”
“Oh,” Nicholas considers this for a moment. “We get one more day with the GPS. After that Mike’s taking his ball and going home. I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Danny. It was never very likely we were going to find anything.”
Looking back Danny knew that Reaper’s farm had a bad odor when it got hot or rainy, but he had simply dismissed it, farms being smelly places to begin with. Everybody under investigation, naturally, had their homes and land searched by Detective Urich and his homicide investigators. They were leaving soon, much to the Andys delight. And some residents too, thanks to all the racket they made.
Since the NWA had been so sneaky, so determined to stick dead people in odd places, Tim Matheson, Kip Naven, and Robert Urich had turned every stone, sometimes quite literally. They tore up floors, tore down walls, called in the scientists, called in the dogs, and humored the psychics. When he visited his parent’s house it looked like a fucking tornado had been there, despite some obvious form of clean up no one was owning up to.
They didn’t find anything. Danny had never been so furious in his life or as relieved.
“ I could have told ‘em that!” Danny had yelled, Tony and Nick looking sympathetic and powerless. “He would never have brought that into her house!”
Homicide had caused so much noise residents complained about it, just not to Urich or to the Enquires office where complaints are supposed to be filed. Everybody naturally goes to Inspector Angel about everything. And everybody knows where the Inspector lives. That’s how it always was, but it’s especially annoying these days. Danny suspects Nicholas will just let himself be taken advantage of and work triple overtime, thinking he’s simply doing his job. And if he has to be honest, Danny just doesn’t feel like sharing him.
When they drive back to Sandford and pass the sign that announces their arrival, Danny wonders if Nick’s thinking the same thing. They’ve never talked about that awful night. Danny can’t help remembering it. There are reminders everywhere, beneath the surfaces of everything he cares about. And that includes Nicholas, too. Nicholas cannot be separated from the ‘terrible thing that happened’.
“Do you want to go anywhere tonight? See a movie?”
“Not really,” Danny shrugs and watches the moors pass by.
Nicholas parks when they reach Danny’s building and helps him out of the car. Danny slides out of the seat, grunts and strains as he stands up, leans hard on the cane. Stupid car is too low to the ground. Stupid injury won’t shut up about hurting. He’s just tired and weak. He’s tired of being so tired.
“You’ll call me if you find anything,” Danny asks. It comes out harsh and wary. All wrong, all wrong. Nicholas solemnly nods and promises to do so.
Danny checks his answering machine when he gets in. He never answers the phone these days. Reporters and so-called reporters kept calling, writers and so-called writers wanting to write books about The Sandford Massacre, The Sandford Conspiracy, The Sandford whatever-else-they-like-to-call-it. Do you know the psycho-killer who lives next door?, churned over and over to scare people. They don’t get it. They want to get it, but they will never get it.
Danny thinks he should call the victims’ families, apologize or something, but he knows he’s never going to. What on earth can he say? How do you apologize for a loved one being gone forever because they painted their house an awful color? How do you apologize for the kids?
Danny takes his pills, weaves around the maze of boxes he’ll never unpack, and goes back to bed. Black hooded figures follow him into his dreams. Oh my God, Nick, don’t leave me alone with them! He wakes up again around three o’clock, not feeling very well rested.
Around 4:30 his cell phone rings. He doesn’t answer in time, but there’s a voice message. Quietly, Nicholas says, “We’re a success.”
Author’s note: This is a sequel to Control and exists thanks to tawg’s encouragement.
Danny sits on the couch, is about to cross his legs, doesn’t, then crosses his arms and leans back. He examines the books on the bookcase and wonders if she’s actually read all those books. The room is beige, lots of beige furniture, beige carpet, and beige walls. It is in fact, the blandest room he’s ever seen. Danny supposes it’s to make him relax, but the room’s sheer determination to be trust worthy makes it more circumspect. If it had eyes, they would be beady little eyes shifting back and forth.
“Um, am I supposed to lie down?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Danny.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll just sit.”
Dr. Stottlemeyer gives him a reassuring smile and pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. The first time Danny was here he was telling Stottlemeyer about himself and deciding whether or not they were compatible. Her words, not Danny’s. In that eye-opening hour they discovered he’s depressed (well duh) and was referred to him by the Department.
Apparently, if cops do one of those cool shoot-em-ups they have to fill out a psych-evaluation form. Danny remembers getting one in the hospital and checking every little box with the word “NO” next to it. That was some time ago.
Two weeks ago he woke up in the middle of the night in a total panic. If he was dreaming he doesn’t remember it. He’s not sure how long he lay there awake, unsure of where he was, just afraid for no particular reason at all.
Danny suspects he’s going crazy, but personally thinks therapy is a lot of bullshit. Just a bunch so called “doctors” talking out of their bum trumpets. Therapy, pills, and her family’s love hadn’t helped his Mother any, so what would this accomplish?
He remembers many days of his Mum lying down and looking overwhelmed and wishing she’d just get over it already and pay attention to him. He shouldn’t have, he knows, and better understands it now even if he’ll never understand her reasons for doing what she did. That’s a mystery he’ll never solve.
“I, um, I guess I need to talk to someone. And I think it’s because of my Dad.” Danny let’s out a small, inaudible gasp. He looks down at the beige carpet and the little wiggly patterns the threads make. This is going to be impossible.
After awhile Dr. Stottlemeyer says, “What happened?” She recaptures his gaze, leans forward.
“He’s in prison,” Danny says slowly and goes back to studying the bookcase. “He, uh-he was an NWA member in Sandford. You probably seen it on the news. It’s up to thirty-seven, but we’re still looking for more.”
Danny can feel the sudden heat on his face, his eyes filled, but he didn’t make a sound. His face didn’t fall.
The session is only fifteen minutes. When it’s over he feels tired again. Danny mumbles a good-bye. When he goes out in to the waiting room Nicholas has a magazine in his lap, but is looking out the window instead. His face is drawn and he’s sun burnt from running around Reaper’s farm looking for Forrest Welker for three days, but hadn’t any luck. Danny has to tap him on the shoulder before he snaps out of his “serious thinking” mode.
“Ready to go,” he asks.
“Yeah.”
They leave the office. In the elevator Nick puts an arm around Danny’s shoulder. Standing this close Danny can smell the aftershave and it travels into his brain, which tells the stomach to flutter and the heart to go a little faster. Danny mentioned Nicholas to Stottlemeyer, but only in passing and left a lot of it out.
It would surprise some people that Nicholas is a rather tender hearted person. He goes to great lengths to hide it which is a pity because people would like the passionate, bookish, part-time vegetarian person that he is. He’s the guy you call in an emergency, the guy that holds the door open, the guy who sits at your sickbed and reads to you. The guy, who, yes it’s true, helps little old ladies cross the street.
And yes, he is as uptight as he looks, but Danny’s working on it. He will slowly but surely corrupt Nicholas Angel if it’s the last thing he ever does. Danny remembers running after him, watching Nicholas do that nifty back flip over a fence, and thinking to himself, Whoa, buddy, what are you? He’s been chasing that ass ever since.
Danny has imagined Nick from all angles, top and bottom, soft kisses to triple-x hardcore action. He is, in fact, fully prepared to go to hell for Nick if just once all that passion were directed at him.
Not gay, he’s not-gay gay, not weak wrist gay. He will never say the word “fabulous” and carry a teeny little dog around that shakes and pisses on itself anytime you pet it. He will not redecorate a house or give someone a make-over. And for God’s sake, Danny will swear he got his first pubic hair after watching Eve Draper eat a hot dog, so it’s not like he’s a total queer.
He hears that Simon Skinner gets five marriage proposals a day while in jail. Number of marriage proposals to Danny Butterman? Zero. Not even taking a bullet is going to make Nicholas suddenly gay for him. It just won’t happen.
“So what’s the plan today,” Danny asks. Work. He’ll just talk about work. It’s the safest topic that he can think of these days and he is genuinely interested for the first time in his life, even if he only gets to hear about it. But it’s gotten to the point where even Nicholas wants to change the subject and he loves talking about work.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do tonight?”
“I mean the farm.”
“Oh,” Nicholas considers this for a moment. “We get one more day with the GPS. After that Mike’s taking his ball and going home. I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Danny. It was never very likely we were going to find anything.”
Looking back Danny knew that Reaper’s farm had a bad odor when it got hot or rainy, but he had simply dismissed it, farms being smelly places to begin with. Everybody under investigation, naturally, had their homes and land searched by Detective Urich and his homicide investigators. They were leaving soon, much to the Andys delight. And some residents too, thanks to all the racket they made.
Since the NWA had been so sneaky, so determined to stick dead people in odd places, Tim Matheson, Kip Naven, and Robert Urich had turned every stone, sometimes quite literally. They tore up floors, tore down walls, called in the scientists, called in the dogs, and humored the psychics. When he visited his parent’s house it looked like a fucking tornado had been there, despite some obvious form of clean up no one was owning up to.
They didn’t find anything. Danny had never been so furious in his life or as relieved.
“ I could have told ‘em that!” Danny had yelled, Tony and Nick looking sympathetic and powerless. “He would never have brought that into her house!”
Homicide had caused so much noise residents complained about it, just not to Urich or to the Enquires office where complaints are supposed to be filed. Everybody naturally goes to Inspector Angel about everything. And everybody knows where the Inspector lives. That’s how it always was, but it’s especially annoying these days. Danny suspects Nicholas will just let himself be taken advantage of and work triple overtime, thinking he’s simply doing his job. And if he has to be honest, Danny just doesn’t feel like sharing him.
When they drive back to Sandford and pass the sign that announces their arrival, Danny wonders if Nick’s thinking the same thing. They’ve never talked about that awful night. Danny can’t help remembering it. There are reminders everywhere, beneath the surfaces of everything he cares about. And that includes Nicholas, too. Nicholas cannot be separated from the ‘terrible thing that happened’.
“Do you want to go anywhere tonight? See a movie?”
“Not really,” Danny shrugs and watches the moors pass by.
Nicholas parks when they reach Danny’s building and helps him out of the car. Danny slides out of the seat, grunts and strains as he stands up, leans hard on the cane. Stupid car is too low to the ground. Stupid injury won’t shut up about hurting. He’s just tired and weak. He’s tired of being so tired.
“You’ll call me if you find anything,” Danny asks. It comes out harsh and wary. All wrong, all wrong. Nicholas solemnly nods and promises to do so.
Danny checks his answering machine when he gets in. He never answers the phone these days. Reporters and so-called reporters kept calling, writers and so-called writers wanting to write books about The Sandford Massacre, The Sandford Conspiracy, The Sandford whatever-else-they-like-to-call-it. Do you know the psycho-killer who lives next door?, churned over and over to scare people. They don’t get it. They want to get it, but they will never get it.
Danny thinks he should call the victims’ families, apologize or something, but he knows he’s never going to. What on earth can he say? How do you apologize for a loved one being gone forever because they painted their house an awful color? How do you apologize for the kids?
Danny takes his pills, weaves around the maze of boxes he’ll never unpack, and goes back to bed. Black hooded figures follow him into his dreams. Oh my God, Nick, don’t leave me alone with them! He wakes up again around three o’clock, not feeling very well rested.
Around 4:30 his cell phone rings. He doesn’t answer in time, but there’s a voice message. Quietly, Nicholas says, “We’re a success.”