What Love Is
Apparently fanficton.net is murdering stories. I'm just putting some here for safe-keeping.
What Love Is
Disclaimer: This may surprise some of you, but I don't own Without a Trace.
Author's Note: This is my very first Without A Trace story, and second story published, and I didn't even have it edited, so consider yourself warned. The "Eyewitness" thing at the beginning of each chapter doesn't mean the character saw a crime; it's just my fancy way of saying "POV." Oh, and don't ask me why, but Elana doesn't exist in this reality. I just didn't write her in. Maybe she's on vacation…
Chapter One: Breathe
Eyewitness: Danny Taylor
The case was solved. Twelve-year-old Amelia Casanova was safely at home with her family and her captor was in custody. At 5:00 PM on a Friday evening, there was no picture up on the white board: a rarity for us.
It was Viv's idea to go out to a bar and celebrate. Before she even finished her sentence, we grabbed our coats and headed out. Jack waved us off from behind a pile of paperwork, because for some reason known only to him and his standard of business ethics, he doesn't fraternize with us underlings.
We can't have been here in our booth for more than twenty minutes by now, and I'm the only sober one remaining, with Sam sipping at her martini with vigor, Viv delighting in her second glass of wine, Martin downing shots possibly as some show of manly bravado, and me satisfied with my club soda.
Sam is entertaining us with some anecdote, probably pertaining to our previous case, but I find it impossible to pay attention. My mind is on Martin, as he takes yet another shot and moves his eyes on me. If it were anyone else, I might take it as a drinking challenge, but Martin wouldn't do that…Unless he's really drunk. No, his eyes are still focusing (on me), so he's still lucid. In fact, with each ounce of alcohol introduced to his bloodstream, he seems to look at me more.
"Are you two having a staring contest or something?" It's at Sam's words that I realize I'm staring back. That's right, in a bar full of pretty women to ogle, I'm staring at Martin. If I'm not careful, I just might out myself.
Before I can even respond, Sam laughs it off with, "Men…" and orders another martini.
Whew, dodged that bullet. If my co-workers ever found out my true thoughts toward Martin, I'd probably find myself in some boring desk-job out in Wyoming. No offense to the state, I just don't understand a place that doesn't have fifteen restaurants within walking distance at all times.
"Heh…staring contest…" Martin seems just to get the joke.
Viv immediately becomes a mother, "Okay, Honey, I think four is your limit."
"You've been counting?" Martin sounds more impressed than incredulous.
"The glasses are still in front of you."
Martin looks down at the table, and, sure enough, four little glasses stare back at him. He points to Viv, "Four is my limit."
"I'll remember that."
A roar of cheering erupts from the bar. I look up and see a ballgame is on. I can tell the Mets are playing, so I try to see the score. The Mets are losing. I vow not to look back at the screen again.
Digital ringing fills the .5 proof air of their booth until Viv answers her cell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Martin is watching me again, but I refuse to make eye-contact, not wanting another "staring contest" to happen right before Sam's observant eyes.
"I'll see you soon, then. Bye," Viv hangs up with a smile on her face, "Looks like I'm getting taken out to dinner."
"Awe, you're leaving us?" Sam puts on her best pout.
"Yep, sorry guys. Café Fiorello calls." She's beaming now.
Martin maneuvers himself from the bench to let her out, "Have a nice time, Viv."
She hugs him good-bye, "Thank you." As she turns to me, her eyes become stern. "Watch him," she kids. I think…
"I guess I should be going, too. I haven't slept in…" Sam looks at her watch, "38 hours."
This inspires me to look at my watch, "All right, the night is officially over at 5:30. We are lame." The comment is ignored by all, which I'm used to by now.
"Share a cab?" Sam offers Viv as we make our way out the front door. Viv nods her agreement, then looks to Martin and me.
Martin looks up to the slowly darkening sky and breathes in the evening air, "I think I'll walk."
Sam cocks an eyebrow, "To Queens?"
"It's just over the bridge."
Viv gives me a familiar look, and I hold my hands in the air in mock surrender, "I know, I know! Watch him. Baby-sit Drunky."
Martin laughs, for some odd reason humored by my tease. I would usually expect a rolling of the eyes or some quip in response, but laughter is nice.
As Sam and Viv slide into their cab, I put my arm around Martin's shoulders in the least sexual manner that I can think of, "Which way, Fitzy?"
"East," Martin indicates with a point of the finger, and we walk.
'Just over the bridge' translates into a two-and-a-half-hour travelling experience. Who does that to themselves? Intentionally?
I've never been so glad to hear the words, "This is it" as we reach his building. I mean, it has been nice being with Martin the whole time, but we were together in silence. The whole journey, he seemed to be mulling over something in his mind.
"Let's get you tucked in," I guide him to the elevators, well aware that he, a resident, can find them, but putting my arm on his shoulders is a small pleasure I just can't deny myself.
As the elevator doors close, Martin leans his face into my neck. Chills flash throughout my body as his small exhales puff against my collar. My inability to remain silent butts in, and I blurt out, "Wow, you sure drank a lot tonight."
Martin isn't struck by the reality of his position like I had believed he would be. Instead, he remains against my neck, and whispers, "I was trying to work up the courage."
"Courage to do what?" Am I seriously making small talk here? I have Martin lying against me, and I'm chatting?
Martin nuzzles under my chin, "To ask you to stay the night."
I can't breathe. The request came out of NOWHERE! How long has he felt this way? Does he mean what I think he means? He has to mean what I think he means; he's nuzzling me, for god's sake. Did he really say it? Am I just imagining this? No, he said it. He has to have said it. I heard it. Right? What does this mean? Wait, Martin's gay? Why didn't I notice? I mean, I'm a detective-
"Please?" Martin's pulling me out the elevator doors. When did they open?
Breathe.
We're at his door, and he's unlocking it.
Breathe.
We're walking inside.
Breathe.
Martin shuts the door and locks it. He takes my two hands in his and gazes into my eyes, "Stay?"
"Martin, you're really drunk."
He takes a step closer, "I want this."
I can't take advantage. He's obviously inebriated. "How about you sleep off the alcohol and we'll resume this conversation when you're sober?" I walk him deeper into his apartment, assuming I'll come across his bedroom at some point, where I'll put him to bed and leave. Yes, leave, like a responsible adult.
We come up to his bedroom door, and as I open it, he corners me by the frame. "Danny…" there is need in his voice, and my whole body responds of its own accord.
I grab both of his wrists and bring them far from his body, "Touch your nose."
"…What?"
"Field sobriety test. Come on, I want to make sure your able to actually give consent here."
There's that eye-roll I know and love, but he submits, and brings both index fingers to the tip of his nose without a problem.
I smile and hold up my hand, "How many fingers?"
"Three," he responds correctly, "And you're going to kill the mood."
"You're more important than the mood."
"Mood saved," Martin leans in.
Our noses touch. My resistance diminishes, and I bring my lips to his. Our kiss starts out gentle, timid even, but we tentatively open our mouths, and our tongues meet, and suddenly we are walking toward the bed. Our knees hit the mattress, and we fall upon the soft comforter, our lips never separating.
A soft moan comes somewhere from deep inside Martin, and I've never heard anything sexier. Pulling back to breathe, I gaze upon Martin's face. A mixture of alcohol and passion flushes his complexion. His kiss-swollen lips are deep red as small pants pass through. His blue eyes are dark and staring back into my own.
"Want you," he whispers and he pulls me on top of him. His hands go to my tie as nimble fingers work with the knot then toss the garment to the ground.
Deciding that Martin has been making some pretty good decisions lately, I follow suit, and soon we are throwing our jackets as far away from our bodies as we can and starting in on the buttons of each other's shirts. Our movements become frantic, and nimble fingers become clumsy claws. I think I hear one of our shirts ripping, but we toss them away without care.
Looking down at Martin's exposed flesh, it dawns on me that I have never seen it before. That is a real shame, because all the soft skin and firm muscles make a sight to see. Leaning down, I brush my lips across the flesh just below Martin's throat, and he moans, pressing his chest into my mouth.
Encouraged, I continue my exploration, bringing my hands up to rub against the pert nubs as my lips trail down towards his stomach. As I reach his bellybutton, my tongue dives in, and Martin lets out a yelp of pleasure as his hips thrust into me.
I reach my hands down to Martin's pants and unfasten the clasp, then I undo the zipper. Glancing back up to Martin's face, I see him staring intently at my hands, softly panting. Making a show of it, I pull off his shoes and socks, drop them on the floor, then slowly peel his pants from his long legs. I pass them over his feet, then drop them on the floor. Leaning forward, I place a kiss on the inside of Martin's thigh. He rewards me with a quick gasp.
I feel a tug on my shoulder as Martin pulls my face up to his own. He plants his lips against mine and I feel him undoing my pants in turn. Not wanting him to separate from our kiss, I aid Martin in the pants-removal, and soon we are clad only in thin boxer shorts.
Sitting back in between Martin's legs, I admire the view of flush, slick skin. I bend low and plant kisses on his firm stomach as I remove his remaining garment. Dropping the item on the floor, I brush my lips across his inner thigh, slowly inching toward Martin's arousal. Sometimes, I can't help but tease.
Martin has different plans, as he proves when he grasps my shoulders again and brings my face to his in a passionate kiss. In one swift movement, he flips us over, and, landing on top, immediately takes control. As soon as he begins tugging my waistband down, I'm happy to let him take over.
Flinging the clothing somewhere into the distance, Martin settles down on top of me. My eyes roll back into my head as the incredible feeling of hard flesh against hard flesh overrides my senses. With a low moan, Martin drops his face onto my shoulder and begins thrusting his hips against mine, and we immediately find a perfect rhythm.
I force my mind not to drift off into oblivion and focus on the soft, breathy sounds Martin is making deep in his throat. As arousing as they are, I also find them endearing. They are truly sweet, in a way. Low, constant moans with the occasional whimper mixed in come together to be something quite precious. Turning my head, I place a soft kiss against his hair.
Martin's noises turn into soft cries, and we are both pushed over the edge. After a few more frantic thrusts, we're splashing against each other.
Exhausted, Martin collapses on top of me, gasping for breath. I bring my arms around the heated flesh on top of me and hold him close, reveling in his small shudders.
As Martin's breaths even out, the mess between us starts to present itself as uncomfortable. Rubbing his back in soothing circles, I whisper, "Martin?"
He stirs, "Hmm?"
"Shower?"
"Hmm?"
I enunciate, "Shower."
"Oh…That means getting up."
I chuckle, "Yes, Martin, it does."
He whines, and I have never found the act so adorable.
I plant another kiss in his hair, starting to really enjoy the practice, "Come on."
He peels his body from mine and we stumble to the bathroom. Martin turns the spray on hot, and as soon as the water reaches the temperature, we step underneath. All evidence of our previous activity is quickly rinsed away, and I almost mourn it. Whatever just happened between Martin and me, whether it was the start of something long-term or just a one-time incident, I want to retain every detail.
Martin shuts off the water, bringing me back to the here-and-now. He steps over to me and wraps his arms around my waist. Nuzzling his face into my jaw, he whispers, "I think the alcohol has officially dissipated from my body. If I ask you to stay the night, can you just say 'yes'?"
I smile and return the embrace, "Yes."
We stand like that, holding each other, for a long time. Then, without even bothering to towel dry, we collapse back into bed. With out bodies still intertwined, we fall asleep. Together.
Chapter Two: Scream
Warning: Non/Con
Eyewitness: Martin Fitzgerald
Whoever decided that all good things must come to an end should be killed. No, they're probably already dead. They should be resurrected, brought out into the street, and shot. Oh, and before they are shot, they should be made to take back what they said. That way, my cell phone would stop ringing, and I wouldn't have to leave Danny's warm embrace.
Alas, the ringing persists…"Fitzgerald."
"Hey, Martin, this is Steve."
I takes me a second to recognize the name through the still-present fog of sleep, "Hmm…Hey, Steve."
"I have a case down here I was hoping you would look at."
Not now! "What's up?"
"We just fished a body out of the river: teenage male. I was hoping you'd have a look and see if he matches the description of one of your missing people."
"You have access to missing person's files."
"Yeah…Yeah, I know. It's just, you know, better to have an expert on site."
"Okay, where are you?"
"Near the corner of West 33rd and 12th Avenue, just South of the Lincoln Tunnel."
"Give me two hours."
"See you then."
Hanging up the phone, I look beside me to see Danny still sleeping, arm wrapped possessively around my middle. I just want to lie back down and spend the morning listening to him breathe, but duty wins out.
I lean over his still form and place a kiss to his temple. He doesn't move, so I kiss his forehead, then cheek, then jaw, then lips, until he finally stirs.
"Hey, Danny," I whisper, letting him ease into the waking world.
"…Martin?" His eyebrows furrow in confusion, then rise in recognition, and for a second, I'm worried I'll see regret take over.
Danny just smiles and repeats my name, happy this time, and pulls me in for another kiss.
"Hey," I greet, "You don't have to wake all the way up just yet. I'm heading into work."
"But, it's Saturday."
"Which is why you can stay in bed. I'm doing a favor for a cop I know. I shouldn't be gone long. Sleep in, and make yourself at home." I hope I'm not being too forward.
"Call me when you're done."
"Will do," I can't help but kiss that sleepy face one last time before getting up. I grab some clothes from my closet, not really checking to see if they match, and head toward my bathroom. Danny's asleep again before I even shut the door.
I shower quickly to be sure that I'm not late…to do another guy's job…on a Saturday…
I tug on my clothes, still not checking if they match, brush at a tooth or two, pull a comb through my hair, and race out the bathroom door.
No matter how much I rushed to get out of the bathroom, I still can't speed by the sleeping figure of Danny. He's on his back with arms and legs splayed, taking up the entire mattress. His hair is a spiky explosion upon the pillow, and his face is absolutely serene. More than that, he's in my bed. There is no better scene in the world.
Work. Oh yeah. Rushing again, I make it out the door and in my car with an hours and half remaining. I pop in a piece of gum to make up for my recent poor dental hygiene.
I know I shouldn't be speeding, but I'm pretty sure that my four minutes and twelve seconds through the Queens Midtown Tunnel is a record.
Then I hit the traffic. All of New York has decided to go out for a drive this morning. I don't think Manhattan has ever been more crowded.
I try weaving through the lanes, knowing I'm doing more to annoy those around me than to make up time.
It's times like this I wish I had a personal siren. I'd abuse that thing to no end. I'd use it to go the grocery store.
I'm ten minutes late. I spot the grouping of black and whites and park nearby.
Before I'm even out of my car, Steve arrives, "Good afternoon, Martin, looking good."
I look down. What do you know, my outfit does match. Wait, did he really just comment on my attire at a crime scene?
"The corpse is over this way," he grabs my arm. Did I always have issues with Steve acting inappropriately at work?
"How would you describe the victim?" I correct his disrespectful use of the term 'corpse.'
He immediately picks up on my businesslike manner and matches pace, "Caucasian, dark hair, between the ages of fourteen and twenty. If you can't identify him, it looks like we might get a positive dental match."
Thankfully, Steve drops my arm. Apparently he has realized that I, an experienced FBI agent, have the ability to follow.
We reach the victim. He had to have been in the water for weeks. I want desperately to help the poor soul before me, but there are no discernable facial features.
I shake my head, "I'm sorry, I can't identify him. It looks like you'll have to depend upon those dental records."
Steve nods, "Okay. I'll call you when we find something. Thank you for your time."
I take one final sympathetic look at the victim, then turn around and head back to my car. At least he was found. He'll be identified and his family will know what happened to him.
As I reach my car, I hear footsteps fast approaching.
"Hey, sorry I called you out here for nothing, Martin."
"It's okay, Ste-"
"How about I make it up to you? Lunch?"
"Aren't you on duty?"
With his head, he points back to the victim, "He's not going anywhere."
That hits a nerve. I've never heard such disrespect for a victim by an officer of the law. "Go tend to your victim."
He takes a step back, "Hey, if you don't want to go, fine. Don't get defensive with me."
"Good-bye, Sargent Kramer," and before he can respond, I'm in my car and driving away.
The whole drive back home, I'm fuming. Never in all my years of working with FBI agents, police officers, SWAT team members, and all the other men and women whose job it is to protect the innocent, have I heard anyone tease a deceased victim. What did I ever see in Steve? Why did I ever consider him a friend?
Am I overreacting?
I know I was already annoyed with him for making me leave home on a Saturday to do his job, but my anger is primarily from a moral background, right? Insulting the dead is wrong in every culture. Am I just mad because he took me away from Danny, and now I'm using this as my excuse? Sometimes it's better not to look inside your own head, so I stop.
Miracle upon miracles, a parking spot opens up right in front of my building. I pull in and race upstairs. Maybe Danny is still there, adorably asleep in my bed.
One step into my apartment and I can tell Danny has left. There just isn't that electricity in the air. A quick check in my bedroom confirms the suspicion. Oh well, I'll just have to call him.
A knock comes from the door. I don't even let myself get my hopes up; it's not Danny's knock. It actually sounds rather angry. Oh, crap, the landlord? I open the door.
"Steve?"
He just looks at me in reply.
"If you found something out about the case, you could have just called."
"Can I come in?"
I reluctantly step aside, and he shuts the door behind himself.
He pushes farther into my home than invited, and leans against the far wall, "I wanted to apologize. I know I upset you at the crime scene today."
"Okay, thank you."
"I still don't get what you were so worked up over…"
"You were disrespecting the victim. He was a person-"
"Hey, hey, I apologized, didn't I? You don't need to lecture me."
"Okay, Steve." This is the worst apology I've ever received.
"I was just kidding around with you. You blow things out of proportion. Don't you get it?" He looks at me incredulously.
My returning stare is blank.
"You're so blind!"
That's right. Insult me.
"Argh! I'm in love with you, damn it! You just don't get it. You don't understand."
He's in love with me? He's got a strange way of showing it. Wait, he's in love with me? Did he just really declare that?
He continues, "How could you understand? You don't know what love is."
Now he's just being mean. I'm about to respond, when he lunges forward and grabs my arm.
He pulls me farther into my apartment before I even have time to react. It's at this point that I realize just how much bigger he is.
"I'll show you what love is."
He pulls me down the hall toward my bedroom. No.
No, this is not happening. He can't possibly…
I frantically try to yank my arm free of his strong grip, but only manage to make the hold tighter.
He drags me through the doorway and throws me onto my bed. Before I can get up, he lands on my thighs. Taking both my wrists in one of his hands, he holds them above my head.
I struggle with all my strength, but it's useless. I'm an FBI agent; this shouldn't be happening to me!
"Steve! Please, don't do this! Get off me!"
"No more talking."
The force of the impact stuns me. By the time I come to my senses, my cheek is throbbing, my shirt is gone, probably ripped apart on the floor, and he's unfastening my pants.
I bite my lower lip to keep from making a sound. How did I so quickly become a victim? I thought I was strong. Even when I can't rely on my strength, I thought I could be smart, but I can't think of any way to get me out of this.
I glance toward my closet. My gun is in there, safely and uselessly in its case. I hadn't bothered to bring it along with me today, figuring I wouldn't need it since I was only going to identify a body. If only I had known I'd need to protect myself from the very person I was going to help. If only I hadn't gone. I could have just spent the day with Danny, instead of…
Cold air rushes at my skin, and I realize that Steve has managed to get my pants off. I guess my shoes and socks had proceeded, but I don't remember.
He grabs my side and flips me onto my stomach. One more swift tug, and I'm completely exposed, at the mercy of the man who says he loves me…
I hear unzipping, and my breath is lost somewhere inside my chest. I want to try to prepare myself, but I don't know how. This has never happened to me before. Not knowing what to expect is almost the worst part.
Almost.
Pain! A scream is torn from my throat as he rips into my too-tight body. My reaction doesn't deter him. He simply pulls out and slams back in. I scream again. I can't control it. The pain is unbearable.
Someone…help…please…Ahh!
I feel my insides ripping with his thrusts, but I'm able to contain my screams. A few more moments and something wet presents itself inside me, lubricating his thrusts. I suddenly realize it's my blood, and that earns another cry.
I don't know why I don't just scream. My dignity has already been stripped, and Steve doesn't seem to care. Am I worried that Danny will come by and hear me? Danny…
Trying to escape into my own thoughts fails as Steve pounds harder. I don't know why the pain hasn't lessened.
With my face shoved into the covers, I soon realize I'm starting to suffocate. Straining my neck, I lift my face to breathe. I find myself staring into my bathroom mirror. I turn away immediately, but the image of my reflection is burned into my mind.
I didn't want to see it. Feeling it was bad enough, but to actually see myself being…
Steve's gruff voice forces me back into reality, "This is what love is, Martin. Do you hear me? This is love."
Then I don't want it.
His thrusts become erratic, and suddenly he's shooting his scorching seed deep within me.
I make some disgusted sound and don't care if he hears me.
He slips out of me, but I don't feel any better. I hear him fixing his clothes behind me.
"This is love. Understand." With that, he leaves. He just leaves me. The front door slams, and he's gone.
Chapter 3: Handle
Eyewitness: Martin Fitzgerald
I can't move.
With every muscle twitch, pain shoots through my body like a lightening bolt. I want to cry, but I hold it back.
I need a plan.
I need to get up.
Later.
Think now.
I need to go to the hospital. That still requires getting up. Damn.
Ignoring the pain as much as I can, I flip my body over. Owe! Okay…
Sitting up is harder, but I manage. Okay, sitting is bad. Standing seems impossible, but anything has to be better than sitting. Straining muscles I never knew I had, I'm standing. Walking is next. One foot in front of the other…it's not so difficult. I can handle this.
Very slowly, I pull on sweat pants and a shirt. I wrap a sweatshirt around my waist, just in case there's a stain…I don't want to think about it.
I take the elevator down to the garage, because I don't think stairs are even a possibility at this point, and find my car. Grimacing as I'm forced to sit again, I discover I'm actually handling the pain better now. Adrenaline is handy.
The hospital is only a twenty-minute drive, and as I step out, I realize I'm at the end of my plan. I made it to the hospital, but what now? Am I an emergency? I'm not dying.
The nurse can handle that. I need help, so I'm going to the closest entrance there is: Emergency.
With a noticeable limp, I make my way to the admittance desk.
The nurse there, who can't be more than twenty-two, glances up at me, "How can I help you, Sir?"
"I'm admitting myself to the hospital." I feel this is fairly obvious.
"Please just take these forms and we'll be with you as soon as we can."
"I can't wait."
"Sir, unless this is a real emergency, you need to wait over there."
I lean in close, "I was just raped, and the evidence will only last so long. I need to see someone now."
Her mouth gapes open, "I'll page Dr. Ryner."
That got her. It got me, too, though. I didn't think I would be able to admit what just happened to me so easily.
The next few minutes are a blur. Dr. Ryner, I assume, guides me to a small room and shuts the door. The walls are white, and the bed is soft. I find a position in which I can sit almost comfortably.
"I need you to remove your pants."
What? "What?"
"I'm going to run a rape kit on you. It will only be a few minutes, and I'll be as careful as possible, but I need you to remove your pants first."
I just stare back. I know I'm being uncooperative, but staring is just easier.
"Listen, I know this would probably be easier on you if you had a male doctor, but I'm the only doctor available. I'll make this as quick and painless as possible, I promise."
She covers the lower half of my body with a blanket and my pants come off.
Dr. Ryner keeps her word. Aside from the fact that I have to be penetrated, again, the procedure is bearable.
"There is minor tearing, but nothing you should be worried about. This should fix you all up. I'm going to apply an ointment. You may want to pick up some hemorrhoid cream." That said, she returns my pants.
A knock comes from the door, and who would have thought that would be a trigger for unwanted memories? I suppress them, knowing I'm just going to give myself an ulcer in the end, yet not caring.
Dr. Ryner answers it, and a police officer enters. Oh, I hate parallelism.
He walks toward me, and I don't flinch. He holds his hand out, and I complete the handshake. I'm holding it together.
"Hello, my name is Lieutenant Kyle Biggs."
"Martin Fitzgerald."
His eyes widen, "As in Director Fitzgerald's son?"
Seriously? This could not get worse. "As in Special Agent for the FBI."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Special Agent Fitzgerald, are you planning on making a report?"
I think about it. Do I want this to continue? Could I just drop it if I wanted to? No, I started this, and now I have to finish it. I nod my head.
"Do you know the identity of the person who attacked you?"
I just stare back at him. I'm becoming pretty good at that.
Biggs chews on his bottom lip for a moment, seeming to mull something over in his mind, "Listen, you're more than capable of making this report on your own. I'll just gather the evidence and testify for you in court."
The clouds part. That's the nicest thing I've heard in…hours, "Thank you."
"No problem, Sir," and he leaves.
The 'Sir' is completely unnecessary. He says it just to show he still respects me. I'm actually happy. I think I'm even smiling.
Dr. Ryner nods, "He's a great guy. Now, let me take a look at that cheek. You've got a real shiner there." She applies gentle probes to the bruised area and I grimace. "Tender?" she asks. At my nod, she pulls back, "Well, it doesn't feel like anything is broken, so we'll just have to let it heal the old fashioned way: with time."
She scribbles something down on my chart, and stands up, "Now I'd like to admit you for overnight observation-"
I'm already shaking my head.
"-but, I didn't think you'd go for that. I'll have your tests done by Friday, and I'll hold that as leverage to ensure you'll show up for a check-up on that day. Oh, and fill these out," she hands me the forms I'd received at the admittance desk.
We each fill out our paperwork, and I welcome the quiet. I complete most of it without paying much attention, so I'm only vaguely sure my information is accurate. Upon completion, I ease off my bed, "Are we done here?"
Dr. Ryner clicks her pen closed, and takes my papers from me, "I believe so. There is a bathroom right in here. You can use it to clean up a bit."
"Thank you. Good night."
"See you on Friday," she corrects, and shuts the door behind herself.
I enter the small bathroom connected to my room, and it dawns on me that I'd been treated in a patient's room, not in the normal treatment areas, where privacy comes in the form of a flimsy curtain. A lot of people went out of their way to accommodate me tonight. It brings newfound warmth.
My luck must be on the rise, because my bathroom has a shower in it. I lock the door behind me and turn the water on hot. Stepping out of my clothes, I decide, no matter how unsettling it may be, I have to check my pants for stains. My luck holds: they're clean.
I step into the shower and instantly feel better. The horror and filth of the day is rinsed away in soapy heat. I walk out of the shower feeling refreshed, all bad thoughts pushed to the back of my mind. I dress and make my way out of the hospital.
As I sit in my car, it hits me: I can't go home. I can't sleep in my bed. Oh no…
Could I go to Danny? I don't even know where I stand with him. We only had one night, and he wasn't there when I returned home. Should I expect him to take me in without warning?
Should I expect him to deal with me now that I've been raped?
I can't tell him. He may accept me showing up late at his doorstep, but I can't risk giving him anymore reason to reject me. I need him now…
I'm driving. I don't remember starting the car or pulling out of the parking lot, but I'm driving. I'm driving to Danny's place. Apparently my body made the decision and didn't want the mind to interfere. I can't blame it.
I'm walking up to his building. Apparently my body parked the car somewhere. I hope I can find it tomorrow.
I'm knocking on his door.
There's no answer.
Danny is a pretty deep sleeper, so I'm not surprised my shy taps don't wake him.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys. Danny's house-key lands on top. He gave it to me years ago, probably so I could tend to his home at some point, and until now, it has never been used.
I slide it into the keyhole and quietly unlock the door. I lock the door behind myself and set my keys down on the coffee table, making myself at home.
It's not easy in the darkness of night, but I find Danny's bedroom. His door is open, so I invite myself in.
"Danny?" I whisper.
"Hmm…Martin?"
"Yeah, it's me."
The faint light of a sign across the street illuminates Danny's bed, and I make my way over to him.
He shuffles to the side and pats the portion of mattress in front of him, "Come here." His voice is still thick with sleep.
I slide into bed and press my back into his chest. The warmth is comforting.
He brings his hand under my shirt as he kisses the back of my neck.
"Danny, th-that's not why I'm here."
He pulls his hand away, "Why are you here, Martin?"
I turn myself over and curl up against his chest.
Only momentarily startled, Martin relaxes with a happy hum. He brings his arms around me and holds me close.
I allow the security of his embrace to lull me into sleep.
Chapter Four: Cry
Eyewitness: Danny Taylor
Movement.
I'm slowly forced awake by movement in my arms. My eyes flutter open, and I see that the movement is a restlessly sleeping Martin.
"Shhhhh…" I try to soothe him into an easier sleep, so we can both return to dreamland.
It doesn't work. Martin lets out an unhappy whine and turns over.
What the hell is that!
I lean down to get a closer look at Martin's face, and sure enough, he's got a nasty bruise swelling just below his left eye.
My priorities immediately changing, I roll out of bed and grab an icepack from the kitchen.
I apply the pack to Martin's darkened cheek, hoping to ease the swelling.
Martin's eyes flash open with a start.
"Easy, Martin. Shhh, it's just an icepack. It's okay."
His eyes meet mine, and he visibly relaxes. It's nice to know I have that effect on him.
"Get in a fight?" I say it as a joke, but hope for answers all the same.
"And lost…"
"You don't look that bad," I gently rub his jaw with my knuckles.
He leans his face into my hand. It's a sweet show of affection. I bring my lips down to his and watch his eyes slowly close. We kiss gently, lips brushing against lips, until his mouth opens below mine. My tongue dives in to indulge in the sweet flavor that is Martin.
Martin brings his hands under my shirt and rubs soft circles on my back. This is the most sugar-sweet passion I've ever had, and I'm never doing this any other way again.
With a soft moan, Martin begins to move beneath me. Arching his back, his hips rub against mine. As he grinds up into my hard flesh, I can't help but shudder.
I reach my hand down in an attempt to slide Martin's pants off. I glance into Martin's face. His eyes are wide open now…do I see fear?
In a swift burst of movement, Martin flips me on my back and lands on top. He pushes my shirt up to bunch above my chest. His lips dance all over my freshly exposed torso and I have to force myself not to just surrender to the wonderful feeling.
I reach my fingers below his chin and gently tug until our eyes meet. There is no fear, only lust and that precious Martin sparkle. I must have been imagining things.
To cover for my search, I rub my hand over his unblemished cheek and smile. He smiles back, then turns his attention lower.
Curling his fingers in my waistband, he tugs my pants down below my thighs. The sudden rush of cold air makes me gasp, but it's quickly replaced with wet heat and all is right with the world.
He doesn't hold my hips down, so it's up to me not to thrust. So difficult…
Martin relaxes his throat, and suddenly I'm completely engulfed. He slowly pulls back, grazing his teeth against me, until only the tip remains within him, then he gives one hard suck. Oh, GOD…
Somebody's talking.
"Uh…Martin…uh!"
Oh, that's me.
Martin moves his hands up my body until they find my nipples. He pinches and rubs, while still sucking me to oblivion, and all I can do is lie back and moan.
Through partially open eyes, I watch Martin's head bob up and down. I want to tell him how beautiful and sexy he is, but all that comes out is, "So…hot…" I don't know why I thought I could be poetic right now. I can barely form words.
Martin once again engulfs me, and this time, he hums. Tingling heat builds in the pit of my stomach, and I know I'm close. "Mar..tin…" I try to warn as I push at his shoulder. Martin remains attached to me, and I fall off the edge of pleasure.
Fireworks explode in front of my eyes as my orgasm radiates through me. I feel Martin swallow every drop, and that's a nice surprise.
Once I'm spent, I feel the warmth of Martin's body leave my own as he collapses on the bed beside to me.
Regaining my composure, I tug my pants back on and, sitting up, allow my shirt to fall back into place.
Turning to Martin, I immediately notice the distinct lack of an erection within his pants. Well, that just will not do. I place my hand over his crotch and begin to gently rub.
Martin's hand grasps mine and pulls it away from him. Our intertwined fingers smack into the mattress. I wasn't expecting that.
"Martin?"
I look into his face to see tightly shut eyes.
"Hey, Martin, what's wrong?"
His hand begins to shake in mine.
I begin to panic, "Martin? Martin, look at me. Open your eyes, Baby."
His eyes flutter open, and the fear I thought I saw before has returned. Damn.
"It's okay, Martin. It's okay." What's okay? What's he afraid of? Is he afraid of me? What did I do?
"I'm sorry…" his voice sounds so lost, but at least he's talking now.
"What are you sorry for?" I rub my thumb in small circles across his palm.
"I…I-I can't…"
"What can't you do?" I'm trying not to make this an interrogation.
"Danny…Hold me?"
The plea rips at my heart. He shouldn't have to ask.
I lie down and scoop him into my arms, holding him close to my chest. One hand still holds his while my other rubs soft circles into his back. "I've got you, Baby."
His whole body is shaking now. He pushes his face into my chest, getting as close to me as he possibly can.
"What's wrong, Fitzy?"
"I'm so sorry, Danny. I never meant to drag you into this." He sucks in a shaky breath that sounds too much like a sob for my liking.
"What's wrong?" I repeat.
Martin shakes his head against my chest.
He should know there's no way I'm going to let this drop now, "Come on, Martin. Please, tell me."
Martin pulls his head away and looks me in the eyes. He looks so defeated. Tears slide down his cheeks, "Danny, I…I was raped."
No…Not Martin. Not my Martin. Not this sweet person in my arms. No.
"Oh, god, is this okay?" I indicate my arms around him, remembering full well that he was the one who asked me to hold him, but still wanting to make sure.
"Yes," he grasps the front of my shirt so I can't leave him.
Leaving him. The idea makes my gut twist. Of course I wouldn't leave him. He knows that, right? "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."
Martin sobs into my chest and I lose it. Tears roll down my cheeks, "Oh, god, Martin, I'm so sorry. Sweet Baby, I'm sorry."
My words seem to help a bit, and Martin's wracking sobs ease. I press a kiss to the top of his head.
I'm out of words, so we just lie quietly crying together.
Chapter Five: Trust
Eyewitness: Martin Fitzgerald
I can't stop crying, and judging by the warm liquid constantly dropping into my hair, Danny can't either.
Why did I bring him into this? He has enough going on in his life. Why couldn't I be strong enough to handle my own problems?
"I'm sorry, Danny. I shouldn't have dumped this on you."
Danny moves back until we are looking face to face. His expression holds confusion. "That's…what I'm here for," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"No, you shouldn't have to handle this."
He doesn't miss a beat, "Neither should you."
I have no response, so he continues, "No one should have to go through this, especially not alone. We are going to handle this together."
Could he really mean it? Could he stay with me, even after knowing? "Really?" I sound so weak…
"God, yes , Martin. I'm not leaving you."
"Why?" I can really push my luck.
"Because that's what commitment is."
Commitment? We're committed to each other? That sounds nice. "But…I'm going to be so much work…"
"You always have been," he's smiling.
It takes a second for me to recognize that as a joke, and now we're laughing, and it feels good.
I try to make my point again, "But-"
"No more 'buts'. Come here." He pulls me close again. We fit together nicely.
We lay in silence for a few minutes, and I soak in the comforting warmth.
I try to force all scraps of misplaced fear deep inside me, but I can't suppress a shiver.
"Martin?" his tone has darkened slightly. He caught it…
"Hmm?"
"I'm going to need to know what's okay and what's off limits."
"Meaning?"
"Tell me what happened?"
"Danny…"
"When you're ready."
I think about it, "No, you're right: I need to get this off of my chest."
He squeezes a little tighter in a comforting hug.
I nuzzle into his shoulder and take a deep, calming breath, "Where do I start?"
"I suppose saying 'from the beginning' would just be facetious. Where were you?"
"My apartment."
Danny falls silent for a moment, then hugs me tighter again, "You know you can stay here as long as you like, right?"
"Thanks."
"Okay, next question: Do you know who your attacker was?"
"That cop."
"Wait, the one you went to help?"
I nod against him.
He stiffens, "Fucking asshole."
I nod again.
"How are you holding up? You've gone quiet on me."
"I'm fine," maybe I'll convince myself…
"Okay, Baby. So, this happened yesterday?"
"Yeah, sometime in the early evening."
"And he went over there?"
"Yeah, he invited himself in. He was angry. He said," I laugh, "He said he was in love with me, and I just didn't understand, that I couldn't understand, because I don't know what love is."
Danny doesn't interrupt. He's using his skills as an interrogator and letting me take over. I can't help but smile, despite the words I'm about to say, "He dragged me into my bedroom, saying he'd show me what love is. I tried to stop him, but I…couldn't. I even tried talking with him, and that's when I got the bruise," despite my best efforts, the tears begin pouring down my cheeks again. "It hurt so much…The whole time, he kept saying 'This is what love is.' Then, he finished and just left. I'd never felt so used ." Well, I don't feel a whole lot better, but at least it's all out in the open now.
"Oh, Baby, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry he hurt you. I'm sorry he messed with 'love.' You know that wasn't love, right?"
"Of course it wasn't…It's just…" I've never known love. Sure, I've loved my family members, but I've never been in love. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that what Steve was doing was love, but it made me realize how little I do know about love.
Danny's looking into my face again, and by his expression, I can tell he knows what's on my mind.
He leans forward and touches his lips to mine. He stops in that position, probably waiting for me to freak out. I don't, so he continues. The kiss is short but meaningful. He brings his hand up to cup my face, "Martin, you know you're loved, right?"
I stare back, not wanting to ruin the moment by talking. I'm going to be really annoyed if he is referring to my family.
Danny kisses me again, "I love you. Can I say that?"
"You love me?" I know I sound like a kid who just met Santa, but I don't care.
Danny smiles, "Of course I love you."
He presses a kiss to my forehead, "You're smart."
He kisses my cheek, "You're funny."
He kisses the patch of skin between my eyebrows, "You do everything for others without expecting anything in return."
He kisses the skin next to my eye, "You're selfless, smiling even when you're sad so others won't worry."
He kisses the corner of my mouth, "You blush when you're complimented."
"And you are absolutely gorgeous," he places his lips over mine, and my mouth opens instantly. Danny conveys everything with his kiss, all his caring and protection and love.
Without breaking the kiss, Danny brings his other hand to my face, and my own hand follows. It's at this that I realize he's still holding onto it. Ever since I told him what happened to me, he hasn't let go of me.
Realization dawns, albeit a bit slowly, like a soft warmth spreading within me.
Danny loves me.
Danny loves me.
And…
"I love you, too, Danny." I say it against his lips mid-kiss, but the look in his eyes tells me he understood.
He plants a kiss on my knuckles. I decide this is as good a way to break contact as any, so I release his fingers. He smiles, then wraps both of his arms around me, something he hasn't been able to do yet, and holds me against his chest.
Pressing a warm kiss to my hair, he whispers, "This is love, Martin."
This is love.
Author's Note: Well, that's "What Love Is." Some of you may be thinking, But there's so many loose ends! Where does their relationship go from here? What happens with evil Steve? How are their lives going to change? Will they ever leave the bed? Well, those are some very good points, hypothetical reader. I'm thinking about writing a sequel to answer all of those questions, and more. Tell me your thoughts!
What Commitment Is
Disclaimer: This may surprise some of you, but I don't own Without a Trace.
Author's Note: Just when you thought it would never come: the sequel to What Love Is. Yes, it took two years, but it really happened! I'm so excited! However, while I usually write out my entire story before publishing anything, I've only just begun the second chapter to this, so I might have to go plot bunny hunting in between updates.
Chapter One: Okay
Eyewitness: Danny Taylor
Something is wrong.
Something is terribly wrong. I can feel it.
Pain. Fear. Something is happening.
Martin!
I look to the area on the bed next to me and find it empty. The sheets are cold.
No.
"Martin?" I call out to him. There is no reply.
He's hurt somewhere. I can feel it.
I throw off my comforter and step on to the cold floor - I have to find him.
The shower is running.
I open the bathroom door, but there's no one inside.
The kitchen. I have to check the kitchen.
The oven is on. I can feel the heat emanating from it before I even enter the room. There's no Martin baking with it. I still haven't found him.
He needs me. I can feel it.
I am four feet away from the living room. I know he's in there, but I can't go in there. What I'm about to see is too horrible.
I don't want to go.
But I have to.
He needs me.
I take the final steps.
Martin is on the couch. His eyes are wide with horror. A dark figure is above him, inside of him, making him scream.
"Martin!" It comes out as only a whisper in the darkness of my bedroom.
My bedroom. I'm sitting up in my bed, out of breath, damp sheets sticking to my skin.
Oh, thank god, it was only a dream.
Except, it wasn't just a sick joke of my subconscious; Martin really was -
Where is Martin? Oh, no, not again.
No, he's fine. I'm just still paranoid from my dream. Martin is fine.
I don't even bother checking the rest of the apartment. I know where he is.
This time, he's alone on the couch. There's no dark figure…hurting him.
He seems calm, even as the TV paints pictures of light and color across his face. He's in a trance, so much so I don't think he noticed my presence.
I make to leave when his voice stops me.
"Want to watch with me?"
I smile. He wants my company. "Sure. What are we watching?"
"Cartoons."
And, I would not have guessed that.
I sit on the cushions behind him, leaning back against the armrest to ensure I'm not too close.
Martin turns to look at me, then leans toward me, resting his head on my chest as he faces the TV again.
This is a good sign, isn't it? He's reaching out to me. He's not afraid to be touched. I remember many sexual assault victims who shied away -
I can't do that. I can't think of Martin as a victim. He's the man I've worked side-by-side with for years, who walks home in Italian leather shoes, whose outfits never quite work, who speaks Spanish like a Gringo, who got himself off a drug addiction…He's Martin.
Movement rips me from my thoughts. Martin adjusts his position, tucking his head just below my chin.
I wrap my arms around his stomach and hold him against me, "So, what are we doing out here?"
"W-When…" he hesitates. I'm not pressing. Just when I think that is all the answer I'm going to get, he attempts again, "When I woke up, I was scared."
That's an admission I never thought I'd hear from this man. I immediately want to reassure him, "Martin, this is going to take time -"
"I was scared of you, Danny."
My heart drops. He was scared of me? What did I do?
He continues, "When I woke up, I could just vaguely remember what had happened to me, and suddenly someone was with me, in the dark, and I was scared, but it was you, and-" Martin gets himself worked up and ends when his breath runs out.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'll never hurt you, you're okay."
His response is a pained whisper, "I'm so sorry, Danny."
"You don't have to be so-"
"I was afraid of you."
"You're going to get scared. Anyone would. I'm not taking this personally. Hey, look at me?"
Martin twists his neck to meet my eyes. His are filled with pure guilt.
"Martin, I'm not taking this personally. It's okay. You'd just woken up, you remembered being attacked, someone was there…this isn't ridiculous."
Martin's eyes cast downward, "I hit you."
"Seriously?" That is a respectable reflex.
Martin's nod shows he's not quite as impressed.
"I didn't even wake up." It couldn't have been that hard.
"It might have been your pillow."
That undoes me. I'm laughing so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks. The shaking of the figure above me tells me Martin is, as well.
"I felt so bad about it!" he shouts in a mixture of annoyance and humor.
"Well, let's just call this one a freebie."
Martin chuckles a few more times as he shakes his head back and forth. I'm glad that's settled. He's carrying enough without feeling guilty for attacking…my pillow.
The mood suddenly changes as he buries his face in my neck. "Thank you," he says, and I can feel his whole heart behind the words.
I rub his back soothingly, "Of course." I don't know what I mean by that, but I think my message of support gets across. We stay like that for a few minutes, until he finally turns back to the TV, snuggling into my chest once again.
Goofy explosion sound effects catch my attention. On the TV, Wile E. Coyote is blackened and crispy, a detonator in his hand: another failed attempt to capture Road Runner.
"So, you decided to come out here and watch cartoons?" I ask.
Martin nods against me. When he speaks, his voice is low and seems far away, "When I was a kid, I used to love cartoons. I really got lost in them, for hours. Everything always worked out, you know? The coyote never caught the roadrunner, Bugs Bunny always beat his hunters, and no matter what they got themselves into, no one ever died. I could count on that. It didn't matter if school was hard or my dad was disappointed in me. Everything was okay."
I kiss the soft hair atop his head. I understand what he needs, what he's hoping for right now. I'm going to do my best to ensure he gets it.
In the dim light of the TV, I hold him just a little bit closer, "Everything is going to be okay, Martin. It's all going to be okay.
Reviews feed the plot bunnies!