Keep the Door, by catwalksalone
There are days when Danny walks into the office with an indelible (edible) frown on his face and furrows between his brows. When Casey knows that the soothing honey of words can not, will not, chase the shadows away. These are the days when he watches closely, tries to catch Dan before he falls. These are the days when his hand lingers a little longer on Danny's shoulder, when he tries to show solidarity through the warmth of his hand on the back of Dan's neck. He runs interference, keeps the others at bay, brings coffee, writes, writes and writes some more. Sometimes he is rewarded by a brief lightening of Dan's expression, the waxing of the moon. Sometimes he isn't. It doesn't matter. He will do the same thing again the next day, and the next, for as long as it takes.
Then there are days when Danny bounds into the office, mouth going a mile a minute, reeling off stats and plays mixed in with little snatches of song and jokes that he has overheard in the elevator and paeans of praise to this week's flavour. When Danny comes to him, crowds Casey's personal space and insists. These are the days where Casey rocks back in his chair, watching the show, not even trying to get a word in edgewise. These are the days when he imagines launching himself at Dan, pinning him down, shutting him up by covering Dan's mouth with his own. He allows himself this brief fantasy, although it makes him a few minutes late for rundown meetings, time needed to straighten out (stand down). Sometimes he thinks he sees a dare in Dan's eyes, a glint of sunshine. Sometimes he doesn't. Maybe this matters. Maybe the same as usual has been going on too long: tomorrow he will try something different.