.fic: Blue River - D/M 1.2
Title: Blue River
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: R. Vaguely pornish, but not really. (And look! No angst! Well, maybe a little.)
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and very likely many other people.
Advertisements: The last in a series of fics set in some nameless future universe. Sadly, though it is short, it won't make much sense unless you read the first two (longer) pieces, A Long Time Coming and Every Distance.
Notes: Damn you, Danny and Martin! And mardia_. This was not supposed to go to two chapters. *sigh*
CHAPTER ONE
Days to departure: ten
“So, have you decided yet where we’re going?” Martin asks - for the fiftieth time - from the depths of the refrigerator. Danny has been obfuscating about this endlessly, insisting on making all the arrangements, and all Martin knows is that they’re supposed to leave in ten days. “And where’d you put the creamer?”
“Blue River Key,” Danny answers placidly. “It’s about two hours by ferry from Key West, east side of the island, some of the best beaches you’ll ever see. And I hid the creamer. You’ll have to find it.”
“Oh.” Martin’s tone is unabashedly doubtful. The refrigerator door shuts with a click and Martin begins rummaging through the pantry, in search of (what is for him) proper breakfast food, and Danny takes a minute to appreciate the view of Martin in an old t-shirt and track pants. “It’s not... uh, like a tourist trap or anything, is it?”
Danny rolls his eyes and turns back to his paperwork. “I’m from Florida, man. Give me some credit.”
Martin snorts and sits next to him, sets his coffee cup down in a small square of tabletop not occupied by paperwork and triumphantly produces the bottle of creamer from behind his back.
There’s still a ton of work to do before they can leave, and it says a lot about what’s happened that Danny’s spending Saturday morning in his apartment instead of at the office. God invented couriers for a reason, he supposes, and he’s very happy he lives in an era blessed by LEXIS and WestLaw online. Martin’s in town over the weekends, starting Thursday night - how he scored that arrangement is something Martin doesn’t talk about - and Danny’s not about to sacrifice the few hours he can spend with Martin to Tarney’s idea of efficiency and maximizing billed hours.
What they’ll do after they get back from Martin’s leave isn’t something they’ve really talked about. Danny prefers not to think about it, and he’s sure Martin’s obsessing about it in private, but doesn’t want to bring it up. Too much complication at the moment, and Danny would much rather let one thing come at a time, thank you, especially after the past few weeks.
“Here,” he says suddenly, fishing underneath a stack of law texts, “I’ve got some brochures somewhere.”
Martin watches him, curious and a bit apprehensive as Danny pulls out a dogeared collection of leaflets and receipts, and yeah, he’s already looking for signs of Florida tourist trappiness - tiki huts, scarily patterned floral shirts, alligator wrestling - when Danny places them in front of him.
He gives Martin a few moments to peruse the brochures in peace before he says, “Rafi took me there once for a couple days.”
Martin only nods thoughtfully.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he says after a minute, and when Danny dares to look at him, he can see that Martin means it.
Days to departure: one
The first stop on their pre-vacation is one night in Washington D.C., because Martin needs to pick up the rest of his stuff from his apartment, sign a few things at the Bureau offices, and pay his rent. And they also need to have dinner with Martin’s parents, because his mother is in town for once, something that Danny is given to understand doesn’t happen very often.
“She called from a conference in Prague,” Martin says on the drive from the airport to the Bureau, pained-looking and faintly red, “and said if she didn’t get to meet you, she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
Knowing something of Fitzgerald tenacity, Danny doesn’t argue.
He sees Matt again for the first time in a few weeks. Matt asks after his shoulder, and it takes Danny a minute to remember that he’d gotten shot by Richard Treharne not too long ago, which is seriously disturbing if he thinks too much about it. Blessings on the head of the person who invented the bulletproof vest, otherwise he would still be packing around a nasty wound, and as Matt says when Martin heads off to his SA’s office, Martin probably would have killed Matt for letting it happen.
“He’s doing okay, right?” Matt asks hesitantly, once he’s sure Martin is out of earshot.
“Seems to be,” Danny says.
“Make sure,” Matt tells him.
* * *
Martin’s apartment surprises Danny, which is kind of ridiculous because Martin’s apartment is very… Martin - not much style, though it looks like Martin might have had help picking out reasonably-coordinated furniture. A computer of frightening complexity rules the second bedroom that Martin’s designated as his office, and there are books everywhere on every conceivable subject - history, tax code, literature of various stripes, travel books. Photographs of mountains and forests line whatever space isn’t covered by bookshelves, a few family photographs that seem to be there more for show than anything.
“Hey, you want a drink?” Martin asks from the depths of the refrigerator, and while Danny says sure he bypasses the kitchen in favor of checking out Martin’s bedroom. Most of the time, the bedroom is just another room for him, but he feels weirdly hesitant, stepping into Martin’s.
Martin, who’s standing behind him now and watching him a little apprehensively as Danny catalogues yet another impressive collection of books, the framed photographs on the wall.
Curious, Danny steps a bit closer to examine one. Mountains in the distance, their flanks robed in fog, the treeline ending far, far below, the hills rolling down to them, and the sky visible above the clouds is an impossible, familiar blue.
There’s a caption scrawled on the mat in Martin’s handwriting - Sagarmatha Nat’l Park - and Danny turns back to Martin, a silent question on his face.
“I went there the summer of my junior year,” Martin says. “My dad wanted me to spend it interning for a government agency - connections and everything.” He stares at the picture for a long moment. “You can kind of see Sagarmatha - Mount Everest - way in the back... And that’s Lhotse Peak over to the left.” Martin’s finger tracks across the photograph and Danny nods obediently, even though they’re only really mountains to him. They’re something more to Martin, though, from the quiet, almost wistful note in Martin’s voice.
“You want to go back,” Danny says. Not a question, really.
“It’d be nice,” Martin says, striving to sound like it’s no big deal.
“We’ll go.” And because Martin’s falling into seriousness way too quickly, he adds, “but I have to warn you, pretty much all of South Florida’s at or below sea level. I’d probably collapse after two steps.” He looks around the rest of Martin’s bedroom - books, more books, running shoes kicked off near the foot of the bed.
A copy of their last team photo on the bedside table. It looks new, and Danny gravitates to it immediately.
“I still have the original digital file on my computer,” Martin explains from over Danny’s right shoulder, his presence sudden, warm, and welcome. “Thought I should print out a new copy.”
“Geek,” Danny says affectionately, on an unexpected hitch of breath, thinking this is how it started.
“Yeah,” Martin agrees.
Which makes Danny want to kiss him, and when he turns around he knows that Martin doesn’t have a problem with that, or with anything else Danny’s planning on doing to him on Martin’s bed.
* * *
Somewhat later that afternoon, Danny supervises packing, mostly to make sure that Martin remembers sunblock and leaves his laptop - because Martin’s laptop is a temptation to do work, and Danny has determined to remove all such temptations from Martin’s presence for the next two weeks. Martin mutters things about the importance of trust in a relationship that Danny pretends not to hear as he confiscates the power adapter and locks the laptop in his desk.
He’s pretty sure Martin’s going through separation anxiety already as they head out the door.
* * *
Martin’s house isn’t the mansion of Danny’s earliest, sarcastic fantasies, but still large and comfortable. Brick Federal style, hedges in neat rank-and-file, bare branches trimmed to military preciseness. Two cars - American-made and efficient-looking - are parked in the driveway, and Danny’s stomach briefly lurches as it hits him for the first time that he’s meeting both of Martin’s parents as parents. Over dinner, and that’s a far cry from pouring Victor a cup of coffee.
“So this is the famous Danny Taylor.” Petra Fitzgerald is tall and slender - austere and well-dressed, much like Victor, with blue eyes that are startlingly and unnervingly like Martin’s. Her right hand, smooth and elegant (not manicured, which surprises Danny), closes around his in a formidable grip. “It’s very good to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Danny supposes he should be glad that she didn’t say the infamous Danny Taylor, which would probably be more appropriate, and he wonders who’s told her about him, Martin or Victor.
“Please all me Petra.” Almost an order, and Danny has to stop himself from saluting. Mrs. Fitzgerald - Petra - releases his hand and turns to face her son. “Martin.”
“Hey, Mom.” Martin’s smile is shy, subdued as his mother folds him into an embrace that most people would describe as cordial, but Danny can see her hands tighten on Martin’s shoulders, the glitter of tears before she closes her eyes and kisses Martin on the cheek.
“You’re looking well,” she says, stepping back and straightening Martin’s collar, a gesture that Danny recognizes as motherly and instinctual, and Martin winces a bit in automatic reaction. “I hope you haven’t been working too hard lately.”
“No,” Martin mumbles, glancing at Danny. “I’ve been on leave for a couple days now.”
“Of course you have,” Petra says complacently, in a tone that suggests she knows Martin would work right through his break, if he’d been left to his own devices. “We’re having chicken tonight. Is that fine?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Martin says, face and voice painted with embarrassment.
Petra shows Danny where to put his coat and orders him to drop his overnight bag by the stairs - “we can take care of that later, and why don’t you sit down?” He finds himself obeying pretty much without thinking about it, overcome by the forceful, Fitzgeraldian take on hospitality, and before he knows it they’re sitting around the dining table, Victor asking perfunctorily after Martin’s work, like he doesn’t know Martin’s been on restricted duty for the past week and a half, and Danny asks Petra what it is she does.
“International economics,” Petra says, smiling slightly. “I consult for IMF part of the year, and teach at Georgetown during the fall. And you’re an attorney, Martin says?”
Her expression hovers at the edge of warmth as he explains himself, as though she’s still sizing him up and deciding whether or not she approves of him. And she probably is; Danny’s seen that look on the faces of his old girlfriends’ parents, and he wonders if she sees the street kid hiding deep under the lawyer’s polished surface, the sleek, expensive fabric he’s stitched together for himself over the past twenty years.
“Now, why don’t you get started?” Petra asks once he’s done, gesturing to the serving plates. “I’m sure you’re starving, after your trip.”
As with most things involving food, Martin doesn’t need to be asked twice, and it’s a relief to watch him dig in. Danny glances at Petra, and he knows enough about Martin to see that Petra, like her son, doesn’t show much to the people who don’t know - but he can see the satisfaction and warmth in her eyes before she glances at him and smiles a secret, conspiratorial smile.
The chicken is almost scarily, professionally good, even though Danny can’t see a single hint of a cook. There isn’t any wine, only water flavored with lime and a bit of sugar - which throws him, because it’s pretty close to the agua fresca his mom used to make - and Danny wonders if Martin told his mother about Danny’s alcoholism, or came up with some other excuse to keep the alcohol off the table. Or even if the Fitzgeralds don’t drink much, and the absence of wine is a non-issue.
They finish eating and talk for a bit, mostly Petra catching up with Martin - Danny’s been given to understand that most of the time Victor tells Petra his version of what’s going on with their son - and Victor asking Danny the occasional question. But eventually Fitzgeraldian conversational inability reasserts itself, and they end up looking at each other for a long, silent moment before Petra jumps in.
“Martin, there are clean sheets on your bed, and Danny, I’ve had the guestroom made up for you,” Petra says hesitantly, “if you think you’d be more comfortable there.”
“That sounds great, Mrs. - Petra. Thanks,” Danny tells her, and he doesn’t miss the quick, guilty flash of relief in her eyes, or Victor’s. And he knows that she and Victor don’t really understand yet exactly what this is that their son has, are still caught by the fact that Martin is in a relationship with another man and don’t know how to handle it. But they’re trying, and that counts for a lot with Danny - it’s more than most people ever do.
“Good night, Mom.” Martin kisses his mother’s cheek, is subjected to another hug - more forceful this time, and Danny can hear Martin’s pained grunt. Victor gets a nod, and a hesitation before Martin says good night, and Victor quietly replies.
They pick up their bags and lug them upstairs, Martin explaining that the guestroom is a couple doors down from his and that it has its own bathroom and there should be towels and everything. He winds to a stop after delivering the lecture, and the two of them stand in the hallway for a minute, looking at each other.
“’Night, Martin,” Danny says, not quite sure whether or not to kiss him, weirdly aware that Martin’s parents are right downstairs, and probably listening, and Martin already looks bewildered, like he doesn’t know how to handle this.
Martin takes advantage of his inaction and pulls him in, mouth working Danny’s open - not a chaste good-night kiss at all, which will frustrate Danny for the rest of the night, he’s pretty sure.
“’Night, Danny,” Martin says when he pulls away, and Martin’s blue eyes are shining.
* * *
He wakes up in a strange, too-comfortable bed in a too-dark room and wonders where he is and what woke him; his sleep-fogged brain needs a few seconds to work out that he’s in the guestroom of Martin’s parents’ house in Washington D.C., and that there’s someone in the room with him.
Martin, standing next to the bed, the winter moonlight decorating his face in silver and shadow, and Danny opens his mouth to ask what Martin’s doing, if he needs anything, if he’s okay.
He doesn’t get that far.
Unceremoniously, Martin pulls the covers back and climbs in beside him, arm sliding between Danny’s arm and his ribcage, tightening across his abdomen. And Danny can feel the drying sweat on Martin’s skin, the fine, residual quivering of muscles trying to relax, and knows why he’s there. Danny doesn’t say anything, only runs his fingers up and down Martin’s forearm until he feels Martin almost melt against him, and Martin’s breath is warm where his face is turned into the nape of Danny’s neck.
Days to departure: zero
The first thing they do when they get to Miami is stuff their overcoats in their suitcases; the next is to put their sunglasses on, and Martin compulsively buys more sunblock.
Miami International is a lot bigger than Danny remembers it being, and a lot more complicated; the signs to the rental car desks had obviously been designed by liars or the directionally-impaired, and Danny - who still retains a bit of Florida chauvinism - is a bit embarrassed at his inability to find his way around the airport of his home city.
Eventually, though, they do secure their car - and before Martin starts making too many smart remarks about getting him a GPS for Christmas - and Danny, by virtue of speed and a little dirty fighting, beats Martin to the driver’s seat. They join the long line of traffic heading out of the asphalt sea of the parking lot, and Danny makes his way to 826.
Before he can think too much about it, he switches lanes and speeds up, heading for the onramp.
“Hey, you’re going north,” Martin says, glancing at the highway signs and then at Danny in some alarm. “Aren’t we supposed to go south to get to the Keys?”
“Not yet,” Danny tells him, swallowing against the sudden knot of apprehension. “We’ve got to stop somewhere first.”
* * *
He doesn’t need to check the exit number as they get off the highway, and he doesn’t ask for directions as he negotiates his way through the labyrinth of back streets and warehouses. Doesn’t need them, because even after twenty years things haven’t changed, and although he’s moved a thousand miles away and hasn’t been back in years, he can’t forget and probably never will.
If Martin’s seen the exit signs for Hialeah, he hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t said a word since Danny had gotten on the interstate, and in a strange sort of way, Danny is grateful.
Bedraggled, choked-off palm trees standing guard over lots that had been vacant when he’d prowled through them as a half-wild teenager, buildings abandoned after the last hurricane had blown through, graffiti everywhere. Crack dealers lurk in the shadows next to the women and men who worked three jobs each so their kids can stay fed. Small sanctuary in the yard outside the white-washed church with Iglesia Immanuel printed neatly in black paint on the boards.
Poor but honest, and he’s proud of that on good days. Proud of where he comes from, and he doesn’t like to think of how many years it took to learn that.
He turns right at a stop sign, noting the uneven, cracked pavement and the weeds and kudzu everywhere just like before, the cracks maybe larger, the kudzu crawling unchecked up a telephone pole. The kids on the street corner look different, in baggy jeans and loose t-shirts, flash of wallet chains at their hips and stolen jewelry worn brazenly on their necks.
But the eyes... the eyes are the same - defiant, suspicious, and lost when they meet his.
Automatically he slows down as he catches sight of the apartment complex on the left-hand side of the street. He can feel Martin’s eyes on him as he parks in a tow-away zone and turns off the ignition.
“We’re here,” he says, and when Martin doesn’t ask where, he knows that Martin knows.
The complex is orange now and the sign is new - still tacky, though, with a stupid flamingo wearing sunglasses on it - and a straggly cypress tree leans heavily against the north wall of the building. It had been a faded sort of lime green, he remembers, a pathetic effort on the part of city planners to convince people they weren’t in the projects. He remembers standing outside once, waiting for Rafi, and seeing the cracks in the paint, counting back through the layers and the years - lime green, pale blue, tan, project-colored cinderblock, the hallmark of post-World War Two industrial construction.
“It used to be green,” he tells Martin, voice thick and unnecessary in the silence. “Like, this really terrible green. And that cypress? I was just a kid when they planted it.”
“Which one was yours?” Martin asks quietly.
Danny looks over his shoulder, surprised, and Martin has his sunglasses off and is looking directly at him, not flinching away from Danny’s lower-class upbringing or his hideous orange apartment complex. Honest and accepting, and Danny wonders obliquely if he’d been secretly hoping for the opposite - for Martin to recoil and demand to be taken back to the airport and his upper-middle-class life.
“Sixth floor,” he says. “Tenth from the left.” Watches Martin’s eyes track up the building and then across, fasten on the postage-stamp balcony, where Danny’s dad used to stand and smoke, dropping cigarette butts into half-empty cans of beer.
“Thanks, man,” Martin says, voice still hushed like they’re in church.
And Danny turns back to the complex, watches the small collection of people gathered under the shelter of the apartment’s bus stop - teenager in a McDonald’s uniform, two older women dressed as maids, a mechanic, a dark-haired woman shepherding two disobedient boys. With the car window down, Danny can hear her ordering them to behave, echo of his own mother’s exasperated commands - in English decorated with a soft blur of accent, because like Danny’s mother knew, she knows that Spanish is still second-class in America and will be even when her kids are grown up.
Is this how you treat your mother? Come here and be still.
continued
Post-fic notes: Dear God, the S4 premiere is tomorrow. I feel ill.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: R. Vaguely pornish, but not really. (And look! No angst! Well, maybe a little.)
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and very likely many other people.
Advertisements: The last in a series of fics set in some nameless future universe. Sadly, though it is short, it won't make much sense unless you read the first two (longer) pieces, A Long Time Coming and Every Distance.
Notes: Damn you, Danny and Martin! And mardia_. This was not supposed to go to two chapters. *sigh*
CHAPTER ONE
Days to departure: ten
“So, have you decided yet where we’re going?” Martin asks - for the fiftieth time - from the depths of the refrigerator. Danny has been obfuscating about this endlessly, insisting on making all the arrangements, and all Martin knows is that they’re supposed to leave in ten days. “And where’d you put the creamer?”
“Blue River Key,” Danny answers placidly. “It’s about two hours by ferry from Key West, east side of the island, some of the best beaches you’ll ever see. And I hid the creamer. You’ll have to find it.”
“Oh.” Martin’s tone is unabashedly doubtful. The refrigerator door shuts with a click and Martin begins rummaging through the pantry, in search of (what is for him) proper breakfast food, and Danny takes a minute to appreciate the view of Martin in an old t-shirt and track pants. “It’s not... uh, like a tourist trap or anything, is it?”
Danny rolls his eyes and turns back to his paperwork. “I’m from Florida, man. Give me some credit.”
Martin snorts and sits next to him, sets his coffee cup down in a small square of tabletop not occupied by paperwork and triumphantly produces the bottle of creamer from behind his back.
There’s still a ton of work to do before they can leave, and it says a lot about what’s happened that Danny’s spending Saturday morning in his apartment instead of at the office. God invented couriers for a reason, he supposes, and he’s very happy he lives in an era blessed by LEXIS and WestLaw online. Martin’s in town over the weekends, starting Thursday night - how he scored that arrangement is something Martin doesn’t talk about - and Danny’s not about to sacrifice the few hours he can spend with Martin to Tarney’s idea of efficiency and maximizing billed hours.
What they’ll do after they get back from Martin’s leave isn’t something they’ve really talked about. Danny prefers not to think about it, and he’s sure Martin’s obsessing about it in private, but doesn’t want to bring it up. Too much complication at the moment, and Danny would much rather let one thing come at a time, thank you, especially after the past few weeks.
“Here,” he says suddenly, fishing underneath a stack of law texts, “I’ve got some brochures somewhere.”
Martin watches him, curious and a bit apprehensive as Danny pulls out a dogeared collection of leaflets and receipts, and yeah, he’s already looking for signs of Florida tourist trappiness - tiki huts, scarily patterned floral shirts, alligator wrestling - when Danny places them in front of him.
He gives Martin a few moments to peruse the brochures in peace before he says, “Rafi took me there once for a couple days.”
Martin only nods thoughtfully.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he says after a minute, and when Danny dares to look at him, he can see that Martin means it.
Days to departure: one
The first stop on their pre-vacation is one night in Washington D.C., because Martin needs to pick up the rest of his stuff from his apartment, sign a few things at the Bureau offices, and pay his rent. And they also need to have dinner with Martin’s parents, because his mother is in town for once, something that Danny is given to understand doesn’t happen very often.
“She called from a conference in Prague,” Martin says on the drive from the airport to the Bureau, pained-looking and faintly red, “and said if she didn’t get to meet you, she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
Knowing something of Fitzgerald tenacity, Danny doesn’t argue.
He sees Matt again for the first time in a few weeks. Matt asks after his shoulder, and it takes Danny a minute to remember that he’d gotten shot by Richard Treharne not too long ago, which is seriously disturbing if he thinks too much about it. Blessings on the head of the person who invented the bulletproof vest, otherwise he would still be packing around a nasty wound, and as Matt says when Martin heads off to his SA’s office, Martin probably would have killed Matt for letting it happen.
“He’s doing okay, right?” Matt asks hesitantly, once he’s sure Martin is out of earshot.
“Seems to be,” Danny says.
“Make sure,” Matt tells him.
* * *
Martin’s apartment surprises Danny, which is kind of ridiculous because Martin’s apartment is very… Martin - not much style, though it looks like Martin might have had help picking out reasonably-coordinated furniture. A computer of frightening complexity rules the second bedroom that Martin’s designated as his office, and there are books everywhere on every conceivable subject - history, tax code, literature of various stripes, travel books. Photographs of mountains and forests line whatever space isn’t covered by bookshelves, a few family photographs that seem to be there more for show than anything.
“Hey, you want a drink?” Martin asks from the depths of the refrigerator, and while Danny says sure he bypasses the kitchen in favor of checking out Martin’s bedroom. Most of the time, the bedroom is just another room for him, but he feels weirdly hesitant, stepping into Martin’s.
Martin, who’s standing behind him now and watching him a little apprehensively as Danny catalogues yet another impressive collection of books, the framed photographs on the wall.
Curious, Danny steps a bit closer to examine one. Mountains in the distance, their flanks robed in fog, the treeline ending far, far below, the hills rolling down to them, and the sky visible above the clouds is an impossible, familiar blue.
There’s a caption scrawled on the mat in Martin’s handwriting - Sagarmatha Nat’l Park - and Danny turns back to Martin, a silent question on his face.
“I went there the summer of my junior year,” Martin says. “My dad wanted me to spend it interning for a government agency - connections and everything.” He stares at the picture for a long moment. “You can kind of see Sagarmatha - Mount Everest - way in the back... And that’s Lhotse Peak over to the left.” Martin’s finger tracks across the photograph and Danny nods obediently, even though they’re only really mountains to him. They’re something more to Martin, though, from the quiet, almost wistful note in Martin’s voice.
“You want to go back,” Danny says. Not a question, really.
“It’d be nice,” Martin says, striving to sound like it’s no big deal.
“We’ll go.” And because Martin’s falling into seriousness way too quickly, he adds, “but I have to warn you, pretty much all of South Florida’s at or below sea level. I’d probably collapse after two steps.” He looks around the rest of Martin’s bedroom - books, more books, running shoes kicked off near the foot of the bed.
A copy of their last team photo on the bedside table. It looks new, and Danny gravitates to it immediately.
“I still have the original digital file on my computer,” Martin explains from over Danny’s right shoulder, his presence sudden, warm, and welcome. “Thought I should print out a new copy.”
“Geek,” Danny says affectionately, on an unexpected hitch of breath, thinking this is how it started.
“Yeah,” Martin agrees.
Which makes Danny want to kiss him, and when he turns around he knows that Martin doesn’t have a problem with that, or with anything else Danny’s planning on doing to him on Martin’s bed.
* * *
Somewhat later that afternoon, Danny supervises packing, mostly to make sure that Martin remembers sunblock and leaves his laptop - because Martin’s laptop is a temptation to do work, and Danny has determined to remove all such temptations from Martin’s presence for the next two weeks. Martin mutters things about the importance of trust in a relationship that Danny pretends not to hear as he confiscates the power adapter and locks the laptop in his desk.
He’s pretty sure Martin’s going through separation anxiety already as they head out the door.
* * *
Martin’s house isn’t the mansion of Danny’s earliest, sarcastic fantasies, but still large and comfortable. Brick Federal style, hedges in neat rank-and-file, bare branches trimmed to military preciseness. Two cars - American-made and efficient-looking - are parked in the driveway, and Danny’s stomach briefly lurches as it hits him for the first time that he’s meeting both of Martin’s parents as parents. Over dinner, and that’s a far cry from pouring Victor a cup of coffee.
“So this is the famous Danny Taylor.” Petra Fitzgerald is tall and slender - austere and well-dressed, much like Victor, with blue eyes that are startlingly and unnervingly like Martin’s. Her right hand, smooth and elegant (not manicured, which surprises Danny), closes around his in a formidable grip. “It’s very good to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Danny supposes he should be glad that she didn’t say the infamous Danny Taylor, which would probably be more appropriate, and he wonders who’s told her about him, Martin or Victor.
“Please all me Petra.” Almost an order, and Danny has to stop himself from saluting. Mrs. Fitzgerald - Petra - releases his hand and turns to face her son. “Martin.”
“Hey, Mom.” Martin’s smile is shy, subdued as his mother folds him into an embrace that most people would describe as cordial, but Danny can see her hands tighten on Martin’s shoulders, the glitter of tears before she closes her eyes and kisses Martin on the cheek.
“You’re looking well,” she says, stepping back and straightening Martin’s collar, a gesture that Danny recognizes as motherly and instinctual, and Martin winces a bit in automatic reaction. “I hope you haven’t been working too hard lately.”
“No,” Martin mumbles, glancing at Danny. “I’ve been on leave for a couple days now.”
“Of course you have,” Petra says complacently, in a tone that suggests she knows Martin would work right through his break, if he’d been left to his own devices. “We’re having chicken tonight. Is that fine?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Martin says, face and voice painted with embarrassment.
Petra shows Danny where to put his coat and orders him to drop his overnight bag by the stairs - “we can take care of that later, and why don’t you sit down?” He finds himself obeying pretty much without thinking about it, overcome by the forceful, Fitzgeraldian take on hospitality, and before he knows it they’re sitting around the dining table, Victor asking perfunctorily after Martin’s work, like he doesn’t know Martin’s been on restricted duty for the past week and a half, and Danny asks Petra what it is she does.
“International economics,” Petra says, smiling slightly. “I consult for IMF part of the year, and teach at Georgetown during the fall. And you’re an attorney, Martin says?”
Her expression hovers at the edge of warmth as he explains himself, as though she’s still sizing him up and deciding whether or not she approves of him. And she probably is; Danny’s seen that look on the faces of his old girlfriends’ parents, and he wonders if she sees the street kid hiding deep under the lawyer’s polished surface, the sleek, expensive fabric he’s stitched together for himself over the past twenty years.
“Now, why don’t you get started?” Petra asks once he’s done, gesturing to the serving plates. “I’m sure you’re starving, after your trip.”
As with most things involving food, Martin doesn’t need to be asked twice, and it’s a relief to watch him dig in. Danny glances at Petra, and he knows enough about Martin to see that Petra, like her son, doesn’t show much to the people who don’t know - but he can see the satisfaction and warmth in her eyes before she glances at him and smiles a secret, conspiratorial smile.
The chicken is almost scarily, professionally good, even though Danny can’t see a single hint of a cook. There isn’t any wine, only water flavored with lime and a bit of sugar - which throws him, because it’s pretty close to the agua fresca his mom used to make - and Danny wonders if Martin told his mother about Danny’s alcoholism, or came up with some other excuse to keep the alcohol off the table. Or even if the Fitzgeralds don’t drink much, and the absence of wine is a non-issue.
They finish eating and talk for a bit, mostly Petra catching up with Martin - Danny’s been given to understand that most of the time Victor tells Petra his version of what’s going on with their son - and Victor asking Danny the occasional question. But eventually Fitzgeraldian conversational inability reasserts itself, and they end up looking at each other for a long, silent moment before Petra jumps in.
“Martin, there are clean sheets on your bed, and Danny, I’ve had the guestroom made up for you,” Petra says hesitantly, “if you think you’d be more comfortable there.”
“That sounds great, Mrs. - Petra. Thanks,” Danny tells her, and he doesn’t miss the quick, guilty flash of relief in her eyes, or Victor’s. And he knows that she and Victor don’t really understand yet exactly what this is that their son has, are still caught by the fact that Martin is in a relationship with another man and don’t know how to handle it. But they’re trying, and that counts for a lot with Danny - it’s more than most people ever do.
“Good night, Mom.” Martin kisses his mother’s cheek, is subjected to another hug - more forceful this time, and Danny can hear Martin’s pained grunt. Victor gets a nod, and a hesitation before Martin says good night, and Victor quietly replies.
They pick up their bags and lug them upstairs, Martin explaining that the guestroom is a couple doors down from his and that it has its own bathroom and there should be towels and everything. He winds to a stop after delivering the lecture, and the two of them stand in the hallway for a minute, looking at each other.
“’Night, Martin,” Danny says, not quite sure whether or not to kiss him, weirdly aware that Martin’s parents are right downstairs, and probably listening, and Martin already looks bewildered, like he doesn’t know how to handle this.
Martin takes advantage of his inaction and pulls him in, mouth working Danny’s open - not a chaste good-night kiss at all, which will frustrate Danny for the rest of the night, he’s pretty sure.
“’Night, Danny,” Martin says when he pulls away, and Martin’s blue eyes are shining.
* * *
He wakes up in a strange, too-comfortable bed in a too-dark room and wonders where he is and what woke him; his sleep-fogged brain needs a few seconds to work out that he’s in the guestroom of Martin’s parents’ house in Washington D.C., and that there’s someone in the room with him.
Martin, standing next to the bed, the winter moonlight decorating his face in silver and shadow, and Danny opens his mouth to ask what Martin’s doing, if he needs anything, if he’s okay.
He doesn’t get that far.
Unceremoniously, Martin pulls the covers back and climbs in beside him, arm sliding between Danny’s arm and his ribcage, tightening across his abdomen. And Danny can feel the drying sweat on Martin’s skin, the fine, residual quivering of muscles trying to relax, and knows why he’s there. Danny doesn’t say anything, only runs his fingers up and down Martin’s forearm until he feels Martin almost melt against him, and Martin’s breath is warm where his face is turned into the nape of Danny’s neck.
Days to departure: zero
The first thing they do when they get to Miami is stuff their overcoats in their suitcases; the next is to put their sunglasses on, and Martin compulsively buys more sunblock.
Miami International is a lot bigger than Danny remembers it being, and a lot more complicated; the signs to the rental car desks had obviously been designed by liars or the directionally-impaired, and Danny - who still retains a bit of Florida chauvinism - is a bit embarrassed at his inability to find his way around the airport of his home city.
Eventually, though, they do secure their car - and before Martin starts making too many smart remarks about getting him a GPS for Christmas - and Danny, by virtue of speed and a little dirty fighting, beats Martin to the driver’s seat. They join the long line of traffic heading out of the asphalt sea of the parking lot, and Danny makes his way to 826.
Before he can think too much about it, he switches lanes and speeds up, heading for the onramp.
“Hey, you’re going north,” Martin says, glancing at the highway signs and then at Danny in some alarm. “Aren’t we supposed to go south to get to the Keys?”
“Not yet,” Danny tells him, swallowing against the sudden knot of apprehension. “We’ve got to stop somewhere first.”
* * *
He doesn’t need to check the exit number as they get off the highway, and he doesn’t ask for directions as he negotiates his way through the labyrinth of back streets and warehouses. Doesn’t need them, because even after twenty years things haven’t changed, and although he’s moved a thousand miles away and hasn’t been back in years, he can’t forget and probably never will.
If Martin’s seen the exit signs for Hialeah, he hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t said a word since Danny had gotten on the interstate, and in a strange sort of way, Danny is grateful.
Bedraggled, choked-off palm trees standing guard over lots that had been vacant when he’d prowled through them as a half-wild teenager, buildings abandoned after the last hurricane had blown through, graffiti everywhere. Crack dealers lurk in the shadows next to the women and men who worked three jobs each so their kids can stay fed. Small sanctuary in the yard outside the white-washed church with Iglesia Immanuel printed neatly in black paint on the boards.
Poor but honest, and he’s proud of that on good days. Proud of where he comes from, and he doesn’t like to think of how many years it took to learn that.
He turns right at a stop sign, noting the uneven, cracked pavement and the weeds and kudzu everywhere just like before, the cracks maybe larger, the kudzu crawling unchecked up a telephone pole. The kids on the street corner look different, in baggy jeans and loose t-shirts, flash of wallet chains at their hips and stolen jewelry worn brazenly on their necks.
But the eyes... the eyes are the same - defiant, suspicious, and lost when they meet his.
Automatically he slows down as he catches sight of the apartment complex on the left-hand side of the street. He can feel Martin’s eyes on him as he parks in a tow-away zone and turns off the ignition.
“We’re here,” he says, and when Martin doesn’t ask where, he knows that Martin knows.
The complex is orange now and the sign is new - still tacky, though, with a stupid flamingo wearing sunglasses on it - and a straggly cypress tree leans heavily against the north wall of the building. It had been a faded sort of lime green, he remembers, a pathetic effort on the part of city planners to convince people they weren’t in the projects. He remembers standing outside once, waiting for Rafi, and seeing the cracks in the paint, counting back through the layers and the years - lime green, pale blue, tan, project-colored cinderblock, the hallmark of post-World War Two industrial construction.
“It used to be green,” he tells Martin, voice thick and unnecessary in the silence. “Like, this really terrible green. And that cypress? I was just a kid when they planted it.”
“Which one was yours?” Martin asks quietly.
Danny looks over his shoulder, surprised, and Martin has his sunglasses off and is looking directly at him, not flinching away from Danny’s lower-class upbringing or his hideous orange apartment complex. Honest and accepting, and Danny wonders obliquely if he’d been secretly hoping for the opposite - for Martin to recoil and demand to be taken back to the airport and his upper-middle-class life.
“Sixth floor,” he says. “Tenth from the left.” Watches Martin’s eyes track up the building and then across, fasten on the postage-stamp balcony, where Danny’s dad used to stand and smoke, dropping cigarette butts into half-empty cans of beer.
“Thanks, man,” Martin says, voice still hushed like they’re in church.
And Danny turns back to the complex, watches the small collection of people gathered under the shelter of the apartment’s bus stop - teenager in a McDonald’s uniform, two older women dressed as maids, a mechanic, a dark-haired woman shepherding two disobedient boys. With the car window down, Danny can hear her ordering them to behave, echo of his own mother’s exasperated commands - in English decorated with a soft blur of accent, because like Danny’s mother knew, she knows that Spanish is still second-class in America and will be even when her kids are grown up.
Is this how you treat your mother? Come here and be still.
continued
Post-fic notes: Dear God, the S4 premiere is tomorrow. I feel ill.