.fic: Sin Dirección - D/M R (Part I)
Title: Sin Dirección (Without Direction)
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: R; angst
Spoilers: Count on pretty much everything up to and including 4.12 "Patient X."
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to CBS &c. And the fangirls were sore aggrieved.
Advertisements: Lots and lots of angst. The story picks up after 4.11 and continues through/past 4.12. (So it will be wildly AU by the time next week's ep. comes around.)
Challenge stuff: for the wordclaim50 Angst #3.
Notes: This fic (like most others lately) has been in progress for some time, pretty much since winter break, but has been too diffuse to post; it incorporates some snatches of fic that failed to materialize into anything meaningful, as well as this drabble, which I wrote for smilla02 a couple weeks ago. Then 4.12 came along and, well, I had to do something with all these pieces.
Broken up into two parts... I'll try to post the next one tomorrow or Sunday, depending on how it cleans up.
SIN DIRECCIÓN
PART ONE
He’s been so angry lately, so angry that he almost can’t recognize himself.
Somehow he’d dealt with it in the beginning, overwhelmed by exhaustion and the pain of his injury, the difficulty of therapy and then adjusting to a new team dynamic that still puzzles him. But wounds heal and his body’s begun to feel a bit like his own again - still too uncertain though, too quick to tire, stiff on cold mornings - and what the pain’s kept back is surging up again.
It started, he thinks, with the Melissa Danielle case. Weeks later, Martin can still taste the first rush of anger and disgust - no, hatred would be more like it - that had swept over him, seeing those pictures in Elena’s hands. He’d held onto that throughout the case, even though he knew using anger as a fuel was not the best way to cope with a difficult assignment; his teammates, every one of them efficient and practical, more or less demonstrated that.
But... for Christ’s sake she was a girl, a frightened, abused, friendless lonely little girl. It’s no effort to see her standing in that filthy bathroom, eyes wide and disbelieving above her clasped hands.
She’d deserved to have someone be angry for her. Bill Shields, Jack, anyone. Him.
He’d followed up with Rachel at the Center, and a couple inquiries with Social Services had told him Melissa had ended up with her other uncle and his wife back on their farm, playing with chickens and learning how to be a girl again. Despite the ending he can’t forget the case, can’t allow emotion to cool as it usually does.
Then the Cassidy case had come along, and that had been okay at first, concern for Jack and his missing mentor carrying him through it. But then he’d been ambushed - again - and God, he’d been... he’d been beyond angry, fury - at being caught off-guard, at being too slow to keep up, at being almost paralyzed by helplessness and fear. It was that last, that brief flash of I can’t do anything that had gotten him up and moving, past the deep pain in his hip and side, the ache of concussion at the base of his skull.
He can remember Danny’s face as he’d forced their suspect to the ground, terror and alarm and worry - “Martin, are you okay?” - and Martin had been so far from okay, but he’d nodded, reaching for breath and calmness that wouldn’t come.
Danny had hovered as an EMT checked him out, and Martin had wanted to ask Where the hell were you two months ago?, but didn’t, because he almost didn’t know Danny anymore, and that makes him mad now, too. And that had been anger talking again, but exhaustion had been strong enough to make speaking, shaping pain and despair into words, too difficult.
Now, though...
It’s late in the evening and he’s heading back from another case, a missing boy taken by his father. Custody battle, and the father’s going to jail for aggravated kidnapping and interference in the custody suit. That they’d found Tim Garner alive and gotten him back to his relieved mother somehow isn’t enough now, though it would have been once. It shouldn’t have happened, is the bottom line; this is the only thing he can think as he stalks home, pushing his way through the crowds of pedestrians. None of this should have to happen.
Old anger and new hover red at the corner of his awareness, hot and sharp against a cool November night. He’s rarely ever angry - mostly, he allows himself a deep irritation with the stupidity and cruelty of the human race - so when he is... he is, like having a stranger inside his own head. And on former nights he would push that anger back into some dark corner and forget about it, the terrible futility that follows him.
Doesn’t know if he has the strength to do it anymore. In fact he knows he doesn’t, otherwise this would have ended long ago.
The Percocet takes the worst of it off, smoothes the sharp points that keep him up at night when he tries to swallow down the sour taste of anger, the nausea that still comes when the pain is too much to keep back.
And, alone at last in his apartment, he reaches for the bottle now, a strange yet familiar thing in a life he doesn’t know anymore.
* * *
It’s been over a month since the Cole Warren case, and he hasn’t moved on. Staring at the Garner reports has, Danny knows, made this painfully clear.
Cole was his past, and Danny wonders if he’s his future, too. If maybe the body, the blood on the pavement might be his own one day.
Local street kid makes good, is killed when gang-banger past catches up to him.
A good headline, though a flip through the Times tells Danny that the story is Local News, somewhere near the back. Too many people die every day in the city, and even a paramedic’s death is drowned out by rape and murder. Cole hadn’t died heroically, had died for no reason that Danny could understand, and it terrified him at times, thinking that this could happen to him.
There are differences, he knows. He’d been a wild kid, too smart and too stubborn to do what his case workers and foster parents wanted, a hurt and angry kid who’d cut class and stolen alcohol, who had cared desperately what his few friends - all system kids like himself, all of them lost and bitter - thought of him. But he hadn’t killed anyone, is pretty sure that there aren’t any deaths on his conscience, and he hasn’t talked with his old friends since he’d moved to New York. Hadn’t bothered sticking around like Cole had, too desperate to go somewhere, anywhere other than jail or the dead-end of the Floridian immigrant class.
Danny knows enough of himself to know he’s never really escaped Hialeah and never will - like he’ll never escape his addiction, can only hope to stay a step ahead of it. A step ahead of memory and fear, and he’d learned that “one day at a time” is definitely the way to think about it - any other way and he knows he would have given up long ago.
Another thing he’s learned: Nobody makes it alone.
It’s something he wishes he could tell Martin, who’s sitting at his desk, shoulders tense, bent in on himself in a way that warns off anyone coming to talk to him. Sam and Elena have avoided him since he’d snapped something earlier. Viv’s wisely avoided him, though something about her says she’s starting to catch on to whatever act Martin’s trying to pull. Danny’s done the same as the rest of them, mostly out of cowardice.
Martin’s been like this for far too long, something dangerous and dark moving under his typical self-possession. Danny’s seen it, flashes here and there throughout the past few weeks, ever since they’d found Mike Cassidy in that warehouse.
He’s seen it, tried to ask Martin about it, about the drugs he’s been taking - and Danny knows Martin’s been self-medicating, call it an addict’s sixth sense - but in the moment, in that one second between the thought and the words, he’s changed his questions to jokes, teasing that he’s pretty sure Martin knows isn’t really teasing.
Nobody makes it alone, he wants to say, because it’s so very true and in the middle of their busy office Martin’s so alone, a quiet, solitary island. Wants to say it so badly his mouth moves silently around the words, speaking them to Martin’s back, trying to will them into Martin’s brain, like Martin’s telepathic.
And maybe Martin is, because Martin’s turning, looking up from his reports. His eyes lock on Danny’s, expression becoming questioning - faintest hint of curiosity behind the mask of typical Fitzgerald control - and Danny almost says it.
He doesn’t, though, only asks how Martin’s reports are coming along. Martin’s answer is curt - okay - almost angry, not at all like Before, and Danny turns back to his own desk, lost for any more words, for any direction at all.
They work in silence for the rest of the day, until the sky starts to darken, the bright lights of the downtown holding up an oppressive early winter sky. Sam and Elena head out, then Viv leaves, but not without directing a meaningful look at Danny that Danny pretends not to see. Jack’s barricaded in his office, phone glued to his ear, invisible behind the drawn blinds.
And it’s just Danny and Martin now in the rapidly emptying office, desk lights turning off, agents heading for the elevators, their conversation loud with relief that the day’s over. Silence chains him, terrible and awkward, and Danny wonders when he stopped being able to talk to Martin, thinks back to a time when they would have filled the silence with jokes and laughter.
It seems like a very long time ago, though it’s only been a few months and a near-fatal shooting away.
He’s still struggling to find words, to find anything to break the quiet, when he hears the whir and sigh of Martin’s computer shutting down, Martin standing to collect his coat and backpack.
“Hey.” The word jumps out of his mouth, unruly, and Danny wants to call it back the second Martin looks up. Martin’s eyes meet Danny’s, hold them for a moment, exhaustion making them transparent. “You heading home?” Danny asks, idiotically, because it’s obvious Martin’s not putting on his overcoat to go get coffee from the break room.
“Yeah,” Martin says, not even smiling at the ridiculous question.
Danny wants to let this go, wants to tell Martin see you later, then, and then Martin would walk out and that would be that: easy, quick, and he knows they can play this game for the rest of their lives, this running to and from. But he wants to hold on, because Martin’s looking at him and something’s there that Danny can’t identify and can’t understand, but knows he wants to. And he won’t get the chance if Martin leaves.
“You want to go get something to eat?” he asks. It’s the best he can come up with, and besides, it’s late.
Martin blinks at him, obviously surprised by the invitation and for a second Danny’s convinced he’s going to say no. He almost wants Martin to say no.
But Martin says yes - “Sure,” he says, like he can’t quite believe he’s accepted - and Danny can’t stop himself from smiling. Martin glances away, an indecipherable and reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his lips, like he shouldn’t be caught smiling and is ashamed to be doing it in the first place.
“Let me grab my coat,” Danny tells him, which is kind of dumb too, because his coat is draped over his chair, but Martin doesn’t say anything as Danny pulls it on.
* * *
Put things back the way they were.
Or stop time, rewind it to any of a thousand points and start over again, changing things so they don’t end up the way they are now.
Martin wants that more than anything. He knows, knows the pills are a bad idea but he can’t help it, because for a few hours they make him not hurt, restore some sense of calm to a world that’s spun way out of his control. In the back of his mind a worried voice whispers about addiction, but he tells it fiercely I can manage this, because he can and he is. He’s working again, is quick and efficient like he’s always been, except on the occasions when he can’t get to his prescription bottle on time.
But those are few and far between and besides, his doctor wouldn’t prescribe the meds if he’d thought they were bad.
Just make the world stop spinning, please, and then I’ll stop, he thinks as he tips two capsules into his mouth, swallows and chases them with a glass of juice.
The only thing the pills can’t put right is Danny, who’s been watching him for weeks now and had barely said anything to him until tonight. Martin desperately wants their friendship back, wants Danny to tease him again, wants Danny to look at him without this expression on his face that’s a mixture of guilt and fear, like Danny’s still seeing Martin dying and bleeding out on the concrete.
Like what happened tonight, which makes him slightly angry because Danny had seemed so relieved, his smile bright and honest, unlike anything Martin had seen from him in the past few months. He’d had to look away, too much in Danny’s face for him to think about, though part of him wanted to.
But dinner... it had been almost disastrous. Awkward conversation, made worse by Martin’s suspicion that Danny knew there was something wrong with him - not that there is anything wrong with him, because he has himself and everything under control - and Danny’s obvious recognition that Martin was suspicious. They’d talked about the Mets and why the hell they showed poker games on ESPN, and the entire time Martin had been thinking about the pills tucked in the inside pocket of his coat.
Then they’d paid and left, looked at each other like looking at strangers, and gone their separate ways.
Martin had watched Danny go, feeling even more lost than he did earlier this afternoon.
He didn’t want this night at all. He wishes it could have gone differently, that Danny were here now so he could say what he wants to say.
Wants to tell Danny what it was like, going crazy in his apartment, the endless trips to the therapist, the nightmares that still come when all he wants to do is forget. Wants Danny to tell him it’ll be okay, even if it won’t be, to laugh and steal Martin’s sandwiches and bitch with him about work and the Knicks, to tease him about the disaster with Sam, to be there in the way that he’d always been there, the way that he isn’t anymore.
It hurts when Martin thinks about it, almost as acute as the two wounds in his side, how much things have changed. He wants a friend, not guilt and fear - he’s got enough guilt and fear of his own already, without having Danny’s added to them.
He could call Danny, he knows. Danny could come over and talk or not talk, and he could shout at Danny, demand to know where the hell he’d been. They could screw each other blind, he thinks, and Martin could allow himself at least the illusion of companionship, the comforting solidity of another human body. He’s long since reconciled himself to wanting and not having, but he’s pretty sure now that he can have Danny, if he could find the courage to ask.
He could, but he knows he won’t.
It’s the solitude talking, of course, wanting someone else there, wanting hot flesh moving under him, the blankness - the emptiness, the drifting - that comes after his orgasm, forgetting for a while what had happened to him.
To them, him and Danny, if he’s being honest with himself.
His apartment echoes with silence; he can make out the sounds of the other tenants through the walls - TVs, a teenager’s radio, the crash of Mrs. McCoy dropping something in her kitchen. Looking around is like looking at someone else’s place, the shelves of books and the neat arrangement of furniture, the photographs all belonging to a person he sort of knows, but not very well.
He collapses onto his couch, can feel the drugs working, the sting of loneliness not as sharp, the images in his head dulling. Drifting... yeah. It’s great, this forgetting, this gentle distance. He’s been trying to find quiet for so long now he’s almost can’t remember what it feels like.
The pills are pretty good for that, too, the quiet.
* * *
His quiet vanishes a week later, drowned out by gunfire and the increasing hum of an anger fast slipping away from his hold on it.
A week later, Martin’s leaving Sam outside Gina Hill’s house to coordinate with the locals while he heads back in. His thoughts are tangling, falling over each other - how he needs to get his doctor to write a new prescription, how he’s going to get Harris off his back, how he’s going to explain himself to Jack, how he’s going to get something in his system before he falls apart.
Sam probably thinks he’s going to interview Gina or tie up loose ends - it’s something Martin would do - but he’s going to try to find some place quiet, somewhere to gather himself before facing the world again.
He has a splinter in his forehead, a sliver large enough to hurt when he pulls it out. There’s sweat in his eyes and he’s dying under his coat, and Martin tells himself he’s shaky from the adrenaline rush and being way too hot. The house is like a furnace and getting worse as police officers and paramedics troop in and out.
Carefully, he doesn’t look at the doorway leading into the hall, the shredded frame, the hole in the wall beyond it. A second, maybe less, has kept him from being wheeled out next to Vince Weaver. He can still feel the shock of the bullet splintering through wood, the gunshot’s echo ringing in his ears.
He walks through the kitchen, pausing to pat Gina Hill on the arm. She looks up at him bewilderedly, not understanding why he holds on for a second longer than he should. Martin wants to tell her that her lack of control very nearly got her - and several other people - killed, but there’s something in there about glass houses and casting stones, and he’s not going to add hypocrisy to his list of sins.
A pair of CSIs stand against the far wall, through the shattered glass door, digging through the drywall with forceps. Sharp intake of breath from one, a soft “Got it,” and then she extracts a bullet. The other CSI holds out an evidence bag and she drops the bullet in. Martin stares helplessly at it.
One of his bullets. One of three or four. He can’t remember how many times he’d fired.
But he does remember the rush of anger, familiar and terrifying, worse because he knows can’t control it anymore, the drugs leaching out of his system and everything’s too sharp, too clear, and yeah he’s losing it, has lost it, nothing between him and the world now. He’d broken cover, not even bothering to aim even though there were civilians in the room; he’d only seen the gun, the barrel gleaming dull grey in the light, and fired at the space just above it.
One second, maybe less. He darts past the CSIs and into the bathroom, trying not to slam the door behind him, absurdly and briefly pleased when it shuts softly instead, wrenches the faucet on and tries to wash away sweat, anger, fear, all of it. The water is tepid, useless.
If Weaver had killed him... Martin shivers and straightens, thinking maybe that would have been okay. But Weaver’s the one in the body bag, not him, so Martin Fitzgerald will live to fight another day.
He can’t recognize the face in the mirror, eyes wide and shadowed, the skin drawn tight and water dripping down it. Lines there he’s never seen, a person he’s never seen staring back at him. Desperate and haunted, almost wild, everything right there beneath this terrible calm, and he has to turn away from it.
Two steps would have taken him out of the bathroom, two steps and maybe everything else afterward wouldn’t have happened.
He’ll think this later, much later.
But as it is, he catches sight of the medicine rack when he looks up, is suddenly, helplessly hypnotized.
And, looking back, he’ll try to describe this incredible dissociation, watching someone else’s hands sorting through the prescription bottles, finding an older one with a familiar warning label. The eyes reading the label are almost illiterate with desperation, searching the faded black type for what the body needs.
Percocet for post-operative pain, the bottle a little more than half full. And the relief is so shocking, a heady rush that’s almost a high on its own, so visceral, he can feel his body relaxing, reassured by the simple presence of what it needs.
The stranger’s hand pulls his coat open. There’s a pocket inside it, where Martin keeps his pens and a spare notepad.
Part of him, the part that’s still Martin, says No, this will get you dismissed, get you arrested, and you’re not so far gone, you had it under control don’t do this don’t do this because there’s no going back after you do this.
But he’s uncomfortably hot, and he knows that’s not from the central heating, and his hands are sore from being held to rigid stillness despite the spikes of anxiety that make them shake. His entire body hurts, and all he wants - all he wants, please God - is something to make all of this go away.
In the mirror, he watches himself tuck the pills into his pocket, trying to will the stranger, will himself, to put the pills back. But he, they, don’t, and when he meets his own eyes, he has to look away.
* * *
Danny’s with Viv, interrogating Toni, when the call comes in from Sam. She sounds tired and anxious, resigned like she gets when Martin does something to aggravate her.
Martin on his own at the Hill residence, with shots fired. Suspect dead, Martin uninjured, and Danny doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Viv actually says “Martin’s okay” and suddenly he’s light-headed, lungs reaching for air and unable to get enough.
And he knows Martin’s not okay, is so very far from okay it’s not even funny. Martin’s uninjured, but Danny knows where this is going: downhill, and fast.
And Danny can’t live with it anymore, and he knows that Martin can’t, either. He spends the rest of his Friday night after the Hill case trying to figure out what to say, and spends most of Saturday doing this as well, before he comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing to say, no way he can script what he wants to tell Martin, or what he wants Martin to say to him, no map for this kind of thing.
In a way it’s a relief to come to some kind of resolution, after months of casting around in search of one. If Danny’s honest with himself, he knows that the answer’s been in front of him all this time, but he hasn’t wanted to see it. He’s not sure why he’s taken the blinders off now, maybe because he recognizes how close Martin is to falling off some invisible cliff, that maybe he already has, how close the two of them are to never being friends again and having this - silence, fear, the memory of That Night - between them forever.
Their dinner that night right after the Garner case... He’d felt the words, could hear them ringing in his head, words he’d used to help other friends through their addiction, words his sponsor had said, even though Danny had cursed him while he’d said them. Even as he’d reached for courage enough to spit them out, he’d watched Martin plowing through his chicken marsala, staying away from the wine - smart, if he had any medication in his system - and that had seemed normal. Too desperately normal, and the little voice of cowardice had said look, he’s eating, that’s good. He’s good, you’re good, don’t worry.
But he can’t convince himself of this anymore, and so he’s standing outside Martin’s apartment building on a miserable winter night, leaning on the buzzer.
Martin’s voice finally breaks through, static-distorted voice cutting the buzzer off.
“What?” Rough and testy, slight quaver in it.
“Martin, it’s me. Let me up.” Danny rubs his hands together and pulls his coat tighter as a gust of wind howls down the street, stares fixedly at the intercom and wills Martin to say something. “C’mon man, it’s fucking freezing out here.”
A long, dead silence and Danny’s almost certain Martin’s going to refuse to let him in when the buzzer sounds and the locks disengage. No reply past that, only the knocking of Danny’s own heart as he takes the elevator to the third floor. His footsteps are loud in the empty hallway, the entire building quiet, seeming to listen.
He lifts a hand to knock on Martin’s door when it swings open, and Martin’s standing there. Dressed - badly, but dressed - in jeans and an oxford over a t-shirt. Most people would see typical Martin, self-possessed and unwilling to do something as casual as wear jeans without a button-down shirt, but Danny catches the patches of stubble, the red rims under Martin’s eyes, the fine quiver in his hands as Martin pulls the door open and motions for Danny to step in.
“What’re you doing here?” The door shuts, the sound loud and final, made louder by the softness of Martin’s question.
“Came over to see how you were doing,” Danny says. He pulls his coat off and hands it to Martin, who drapes it over his own, carelessly tossed over the back of a living room chair. Danny’s heart skips bizarrely at the sight.
“I’m okay,” Martin says, hovering between confusion and suspicion.
“You sure?” Danny knows there’s worry and fear in his voice, can’t help it, can only try to cover with his usual insouciance. “’Cause I gotta say, Fitz, you looked pretty rough when you came out of Jack’s office.”
Martin had had to turn his weapon in, pending investigation of Vincent Weaver’s death. He’d probably been treated to a lecture from Jack about going in without backup, but Danny hadn’t been able to overhear.
“Yeah, well, I got reamed out by Jack,” Martin says, managing to sound angry and rueful at the same time. He walks around to the far side of the couch, closer to the kitchen, as though needing some barrier between himself and Danny.
“Know how that is.” Danny can feel the conversation sliding away from what it needs to be, but doesn’t know how to bring it back without Martin catching on. “So... did Jack tell you to take time off or anything?”
“Not supposed to go in Monday or Tuesday.” Martin turns away, heading for the kitchen, and Danny takes in the slight stiffness of his gait, the tension in his shoulders. “You want a drink?”
“Water, if you got it.”
“Fresh out of water, sorry.” Martin rattles around in the cupboards, and a moment later the faucet turns on.
Danny takes the opportunity to nose around Martin’s living room, which is predictably spare and lacking in any distinct style, dominated mostly by books and photographs, a fleece blanket hastily folded across the back of the couch, a stack of FBI manuals on the coffee table. He flops down on the couch to more closely inspect the titles - safety and procedure, which make him sleepy just thinking about them.
There’s a small yellow bottle under the coffee table and Danny freezes, staring at it.
Martin’s still moving around in the kitchen, but the faucet’s off. Before he can think too much about it, Danny picks the bottle up, flips it in his hand to look at the label and see exactly what it is that Martin’s taking.
“Hey, I got some potato chips if you’re - ” Martin’s voice is loud, breaking in on Danny’s distraction, and Danny jumps, turns before he can stop himself.
Martin’s gaze darts down, eyes going wide as they fix on the bottle in Danny’s hand. A bag of potato chips hits the floor with an insignificant plop. Martin sets the glass down on a side table, hand shaking so badly the water spills, soaking into the carpet.
“Danny, c’mon, hand it over.” Martin’s voice is a parody of his usual commanding tone, cracking under the strain of demand.
“What’s this?” Danny holds the bottle up, shakes it so the pills rattle, a wordless accusation. Martin reaches automatically for it.
“It’s nothing.” Martin makes a grab for the bottle, but Danny twists around and pulls it out of reach.
“‘Gina Hill?’” He stares at Martin, who’s frozen, watching him with a mixture of desperation and wariness, eyes flickering back and forth between Danny’s face and the pills in Danny’s hand. “Oh God, Martin... please tell me these aren’t hers.”
Martin stares at him helplessly, opens his mouth to say something, and nothing comes out.
-tbc-
Is that enough angst for you all? :)
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: R; angst
Spoilers: Count on pretty much everything up to and including 4.12 "Patient X."
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to CBS &c. And the fangirls were sore aggrieved.
Advertisements: Lots and lots of angst. The story picks up after 4.11 and continues through/past 4.12. (So it will be wildly AU by the time next week's ep. comes around.)
Challenge stuff: for the wordclaim50 Angst #3.
Notes: This fic (like most others lately) has been in progress for some time, pretty much since winter break, but has been too diffuse to post; it incorporates some snatches of fic that failed to materialize into anything meaningful, as well as this drabble, which I wrote for smilla02 a couple weeks ago. Then 4.12 came along and, well, I had to do something with all these pieces.
Broken up into two parts... I'll try to post the next one tomorrow or Sunday, depending on how it cleans up.
SIN DIRECCIÓN
PART ONE
He’s been so angry lately, so angry that he almost can’t recognize himself.
Somehow he’d dealt with it in the beginning, overwhelmed by exhaustion and the pain of his injury, the difficulty of therapy and then adjusting to a new team dynamic that still puzzles him. But wounds heal and his body’s begun to feel a bit like his own again - still too uncertain though, too quick to tire, stiff on cold mornings - and what the pain’s kept back is surging up again.
It started, he thinks, with the Melissa Danielle case. Weeks later, Martin can still taste the first rush of anger and disgust - no, hatred would be more like it - that had swept over him, seeing those pictures in Elena’s hands. He’d held onto that throughout the case, even though he knew using anger as a fuel was not the best way to cope with a difficult assignment; his teammates, every one of them efficient and practical, more or less demonstrated that.
But... for Christ’s sake she was a girl, a frightened, abused, friendless lonely little girl. It’s no effort to see her standing in that filthy bathroom, eyes wide and disbelieving above her clasped hands.
She’d deserved to have someone be angry for her. Bill Shields, Jack, anyone. Him.
He’d followed up with Rachel at the Center, and a couple inquiries with Social Services had told him Melissa had ended up with her other uncle and his wife back on their farm, playing with chickens and learning how to be a girl again. Despite the ending he can’t forget the case, can’t allow emotion to cool as it usually does.
Then the Cassidy case had come along, and that had been okay at first, concern for Jack and his missing mentor carrying him through it. But then he’d been ambushed - again - and God, he’d been... he’d been beyond angry, fury - at being caught off-guard, at being too slow to keep up, at being almost paralyzed by helplessness and fear. It was that last, that brief flash of I can’t do anything that had gotten him up and moving, past the deep pain in his hip and side, the ache of concussion at the base of his skull.
He can remember Danny’s face as he’d forced their suspect to the ground, terror and alarm and worry - “Martin, are you okay?” - and Martin had been so far from okay, but he’d nodded, reaching for breath and calmness that wouldn’t come.
Danny had hovered as an EMT checked him out, and Martin had wanted to ask Where the hell were you two months ago?, but didn’t, because he almost didn’t know Danny anymore, and that makes him mad now, too. And that had been anger talking again, but exhaustion had been strong enough to make speaking, shaping pain and despair into words, too difficult.
Now, though...
It’s late in the evening and he’s heading back from another case, a missing boy taken by his father. Custody battle, and the father’s going to jail for aggravated kidnapping and interference in the custody suit. That they’d found Tim Garner alive and gotten him back to his relieved mother somehow isn’t enough now, though it would have been once. It shouldn’t have happened, is the bottom line; this is the only thing he can think as he stalks home, pushing his way through the crowds of pedestrians. None of this should have to happen.
Old anger and new hover red at the corner of his awareness, hot and sharp against a cool November night. He’s rarely ever angry - mostly, he allows himself a deep irritation with the stupidity and cruelty of the human race - so when he is... he is, like having a stranger inside his own head. And on former nights he would push that anger back into some dark corner and forget about it, the terrible futility that follows him.
Doesn’t know if he has the strength to do it anymore. In fact he knows he doesn’t, otherwise this would have ended long ago.
The Percocet takes the worst of it off, smoothes the sharp points that keep him up at night when he tries to swallow down the sour taste of anger, the nausea that still comes when the pain is too much to keep back.
And, alone at last in his apartment, he reaches for the bottle now, a strange yet familiar thing in a life he doesn’t know anymore.
* * *
It’s been over a month since the Cole Warren case, and he hasn’t moved on. Staring at the Garner reports has, Danny knows, made this painfully clear.
Cole was his past, and Danny wonders if he’s his future, too. If maybe the body, the blood on the pavement might be his own one day.
Local street kid makes good, is killed when gang-banger past catches up to him.
A good headline, though a flip through the Times tells Danny that the story is Local News, somewhere near the back. Too many people die every day in the city, and even a paramedic’s death is drowned out by rape and murder. Cole hadn’t died heroically, had died for no reason that Danny could understand, and it terrified him at times, thinking that this could happen to him.
There are differences, he knows. He’d been a wild kid, too smart and too stubborn to do what his case workers and foster parents wanted, a hurt and angry kid who’d cut class and stolen alcohol, who had cared desperately what his few friends - all system kids like himself, all of them lost and bitter - thought of him. But he hadn’t killed anyone, is pretty sure that there aren’t any deaths on his conscience, and he hasn’t talked with his old friends since he’d moved to New York. Hadn’t bothered sticking around like Cole had, too desperate to go somewhere, anywhere other than jail or the dead-end of the Floridian immigrant class.
Danny knows enough of himself to know he’s never really escaped Hialeah and never will - like he’ll never escape his addiction, can only hope to stay a step ahead of it. A step ahead of memory and fear, and he’d learned that “one day at a time” is definitely the way to think about it - any other way and he knows he would have given up long ago.
Another thing he’s learned: Nobody makes it alone.
It’s something he wishes he could tell Martin, who’s sitting at his desk, shoulders tense, bent in on himself in a way that warns off anyone coming to talk to him. Sam and Elena have avoided him since he’d snapped something earlier. Viv’s wisely avoided him, though something about her says she’s starting to catch on to whatever act Martin’s trying to pull. Danny’s done the same as the rest of them, mostly out of cowardice.
Martin’s been like this for far too long, something dangerous and dark moving under his typical self-possession. Danny’s seen it, flashes here and there throughout the past few weeks, ever since they’d found Mike Cassidy in that warehouse.
He’s seen it, tried to ask Martin about it, about the drugs he’s been taking - and Danny knows Martin’s been self-medicating, call it an addict’s sixth sense - but in the moment, in that one second between the thought and the words, he’s changed his questions to jokes, teasing that he’s pretty sure Martin knows isn’t really teasing.
Nobody makes it alone, he wants to say, because it’s so very true and in the middle of their busy office Martin’s so alone, a quiet, solitary island. Wants to say it so badly his mouth moves silently around the words, speaking them to Martin’s back, trying to will them into Martin’s brain, like Martin’s telepathic.
And maybe Martin is, because Martin’s turning, looking up from his reports. His eyes lock on Danny’s, expression becoming questioning - faintest hint of curiosity behind the mask of typical Fitzgerald control - and Danny almost says it.
He doesn’t, though, only asks how Martin’s reports are coming along. Martin’s answer is curt - okay - almost angry, not at all like Before, and Danny turns back to his own desk, lost for any more words, for any direction at all.
They work in silence for the rest of the day, until the sky starts to darken, the bright lights of the downtown holding up an oppressive early winter sky. Sam and Elena head out, then Viv leaves, but not without directing a meaningful look at Danny that Danny pretends not to see. Jack’s barricaded in his office, phone glued to his ear, invisible behind the drawn blinds.
And it’s just Danny and Martin now in the rapidly emptying office, desk lights turning off, agents heading for the elevators, their conversation loud with relief that the day’s over. Silence chains him, terrible and awkward, and Danny wonders when he stopped being able to talk to Martin, thinks back to a time when they would have filled the silence with jokes and laughter.
It seems like a very long time ago, though it’s only been a few months and a near-fatal shooting away.
He’s still struggling to find words, to find anything to break the quiet, when he hears the whir and sigh of Martin’s computer shutting down, Martin standing to collect his coat and backpack.
“Hey.” The word jumps out of his mouth, unruly, and Danny wants to call it back the second Martin looks up. Martin’s eyes meet Danny’s, hold them for a moment, exhaustion making them transparent. “You heading home?” Danny asks, idiotically, because it’s obvious Martin’s not putting on his overcoat to go get coffee from the break room.
“Yeah,” Martin says, not even smiling at the ridiculous question.
Danny wants to let this go, wants to tell Martin see you later, then, and then Martin would walk out and that would be that: easy, quick, and he knows they can play this game for the rest of their lives, this running to and from. But he wants to hold on, because Martin’s looking at him and something’s there that Danny can’t identify and can’t understand, but knows he wants to. And he won’t get the chance if Martin leaves.
“You want to go get something to eat?” he asks. It’s the best he can come up with, and besides, it’s late.
Martin blinks at him, obviously surprised by the invitation and for a second Danny’s convinced he’s going to say no. He almost wants Martin to say no.
But Martin says yes - “Sure,” he says, like he can’t quite believe he’s accepted - and Danny can’t stop himself from smiling. Martin glances away, an indecipherable and reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his lips, like he shouldn’t be caught smiling and is ashamed to be doing it in the first place.
“Let me grab my coat,” Danny tells him, which is kind of dumb too, because his coat is draped over his chair, but Martin doesn’t say anything as Danny pulls it on.
* * *
Put things back the way they were.
Or stop time, rewind it to any of a thousand points and start over again, changing things so they don’t end up the way they are now.
Martin wants that more than anything. He knows, knows the pills are a bad idea but he can’t help it, because for a few hours they make him not hurt, restore some sense of calm to a world that’s spun way out of his control. In the back of his mind a worried voice whispers about addiction, but he tells it fiercely I can manage this, because he can and he is. He’s working again, is quick and efficient like he’s always been, except on the occasions when he can’t get to his prescription bottle on time.
But those are few and far between and besides, his doctor wouldn’t prescribe the meds if he’d thought they were bad.
Just make the world stop spinning, please, and then I’ll stop, he thinks as he tips two capsules into his mouth, swallows and chases them with a glass of juice.
The only thing the pills can’t put right is Danny, who’s been watching him for weeks now and had barely said anything to him until tonight. Martin desperately wants their friendship back, wants Danny to tease him again, wants Danny to look at him without this expression on his face that’s a mixture of guilt and fear, like Danny’s still seeing Martin dying and bleeding out on the concrete.
Like what happened tonight, which makes him slightly angry because Danny had seemed so relieved, his smile bright and honest, unlike anything Martin had seen from him in the past few months. He’d had to look away, too much in Danny’s face for him to think about, though part of him wanted to.
But dinner... it had been almost disastrous. Awkward conversation, made worse by Martin’s suspicion that Danny knew there was something wrong with him - not that there is anything wrong with him, because he has himself and everything under control - and Danny’s obvious recognition that Martin was suspicious. They’d talked about the Mets and why the hell they showed poker games on ESPN, and the entire time Martin had been thinking about the pills tucked in the inside pocket of his coat.
Then they’d paid and left, looked at each other like looking at strangers, and gone their separate ways.
Martin had watched Danny go, feeling even more lost than he did earlier this afternoon.
He didn’t want this night at all. He wishes it could have gone differently, that Danny were here now so he could say what he wants to say.
Wants to tell Danny what it was like, going crazy in his apartment, the endless trips to the therapist, the nightmares that still come when all he wants to do is forget. Wants Danny to tell him it’ll be okay, even if it won’t be, to laugh and steal Martin’s sandwiches and bitch with him about work and the Knicks, to tease him about the disaster with Sam, to be there in the way that he’d always been there, the way that he isn’t anymore.
It hurts when Martin thinks about it, almost as acute as the two wounds in his side, how much things have changed. He wants a friend, not guilt and fear - he’s got enough guilt and fear of his own already, without having Danny’s added to them.
He could call Danny, he knows. Danny could come over and talk or not talk, and he could shout at Danny, demand to know where the hell he’d been. They could screw each other blind, he thinks, and Martin could allow himself at least the illusion of companionship, the comforting solidity of another human body. He’s long since reconciled himself to wanting and not having, but he’s pretty sure now that he can have Danny, if he could find the courage to ask.
He could, but he knows he won’t.
It’s the solitude talking, of course, wanting someone else there, wanting hot flesh moving under him, the blankness - the emptiness, the drifting - that comes after his orgasm, forgetting for a while what had happened to him.
To them, him and Danny, if he’s being honest with himself.
His apartment echoes with silence; he can make out the sounds of the other tenants through the walls - TVs, a teenager’s radio, the crash of Mrs. McCoy dropping something in her kitchen. Looking around is like looking at someone else’s place, the shelves of books and the neat arrangement of furniture, the photographs all belonging to a person he sort of knows, but not very well.
He collapses onto his couch, can feel the drugs working, the sting of loneliness not as sharp, the images in his head dulling. Drifting... yeah. It’s great, this forgetting, this gentle distance. He’s been trying to find quiet for so long now he’s almost can’t remember what it feels like.
The pills are pretty good for that, too, the quiet.
* * *
His quiet vanishes a week later, drowned out by gunfire and the increasing hum of an anger fast slipping away from his hold on it.
A week later, Martin’s leaving Sam outside Gina Hill’s house to coordinate with the locals while he heads back in. His thoughts are tangling, falling over each other - how he needs to get his doctor to write a new prescription, how he’s going to get Harris off his back, how he’s going to explain himself to Jack, how he’s going to get something in his system before he falls apart.
Sam probably thinks he’s going to interview Gina or tie up loose ends - it’s something Martin would do - but he’s going to try to find some place quiet, somewhere to gather himself before facing the world again.
He has a splinter in his forehead, a sliver large enough to hurt when he pulls it out. There’s sweat in his eyes and he’s dying under his coat, and Martin tells himself he’s shaky from the adrenaline rush and being way too hot. The house is like a furnace and getting worse as police officers and paramedics troop in and out.
Carefully, he doesn’t look at the doorway leading into the hall, the shredded frame, the hole in the wall beyond it. A second, maybe less, has kept him from being wheeled out next to Vince Weaver. He can still feel the shock of the bullet splintering through wood, the gunshot’s echo ringing in his ears.
He walks through the kitchen, pausing to pat Gina Hill on the arm. She looks up at him bewilderedly, not understanding why he holds on for a second longer than he should. Martin wants to tell her that her lack of control very nearly got her - and several other people - killed, but there’s something in there about glass houses and casting stones, and he’s not going to add hypocrisy to his list of sins.
A pair of CSIs stand against the far wall, through the shattered glass door, digging through the drywall with forceps. Sharp intake of breath from one, a soft “Got it,” and then she extracts a bullet. The other CSI holds out an evidence bag and she drops the bullet in. Martin stares helplessly at it.
One of his bullets. One of three or four. He can’t remember how many times he’d fired.
But he does remember the rush of anger, familiar and terrifying, worse because he knows can’t control it anymore, the drugs leaching out of his system and everything’s too sharp, too clear, and yeah he’s losing it, has lost it, nothing between him and the world now. He’d broken cover, not even bothering to aim even though there were civilians in the room; he’d only seen the gun, the barrel gleaming dull grey in the light, and fired at the space just above it.
One second, maybe less. He darts past the CSIs and into the bathroom, trying not to slam the door behind him, absurdly and briefly pleased when it shuts softly instead, wrenches the faucet on and tries to wash away sweat, anger, fear, all of it. The water is tepid, useless.
If Weaver had killed him... Martin shivers and straightens, thinking maybe that would have been okay. But Weaver’s the one in the body bag, not him, so Martin Fitzgerald will live to fight another day.
He can’t recognize the face in the mirror, eyes wide and shadowed, the skin drawn tight and water dripping down it. Lines there he’s never seen, a person he’s never seen staring back at him. Desperate and haunted, almost wild, everything right there beneath this terrible calm, and he has to turn away from it.
Two steps would have taken him out of the bathroom, two steps and maybe everything else afterward wouldn’t have happened.
He’ll think this later, much later.
But as it is, he catches sight of the medicine rack when he looks up, is suddenly, helplessly hypnotized.
And, looking back, he’ll try to describe this incredible dissociation, watching someone else’s hands sorting through the prescription bottles, finding an older one with a familiar warning label. The eyes reading the label are almost illiterate with desperation, searching the faded black type for what the body needs.
Percocet for post-operative pain, the bottle a little more than half full. And the relief is so shocking, a heady rush that’s almost a high on its own, so visceral, he can feel his body relaxing, reassured by the simple presence of what it needs.
The stranger’s hand pulls his coat open. There’s a pocket inside it, where Martin keeps his pens and a spare notepad.
Part of him, the part that’s still Martin, says No, this will get you dismissed, get you arrested, and you’re not so far gone, you had it under control don’t do this don’t do this because there’s no going back after you do this.
But he’s uncomfortably hot, and he knows that’s not from the central heating, and his hands are sore from being held to rigid stillness despite the spikes of anxiety that make them shake. His entire body hurts, and all he wants - all he wants, please God - is something to make all of this go away.
In the mirror, he watches himself tuck the pills into his pocket, trying to will the stranger, will himself, to put the pills back. But he, they, don’t, and when he meets his own eyes, he has to look away.
* * *
Danny’s with Viv, interrogating Toni, when the call comes in from Sam. She sounds tired and anxious, resigned like she gets when Martin does something to aggravate her.
Martin on his own at the Hill residence, with shots fired. Suspect dead, Martin uninjured, and Danny doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Viv actually says “Martin’s okay” and suddenly he’s light-headed, lungs reaching for air and unable to get enough.
And he knows Martin’s not okay, is so very far from okay it’s not even funny. Martin’s uninjured, but Danny knows where this is going: downhill, and fast.
And Danny can’t live with it anymore, and he knows that Martin can’t, either. He spends the rest of his Friday night after the Hill case trying to figure out what to say, and spends most of Saturday doing this as well, before he comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing to say, no way he can script what he wants to tell Martin, or what he wants Martin to say to him, no map for this kind of thing.
In a way it’s a relief to come to some kind of resolution, after months of casting around in search of one. If Danny’s honest with himself, he knows that the answer’s been in front of him all this time, but he hasn’t wanted to see it. He’s not sure why he’s taken the blinders off now, maybe because he recognizes how close Martin is to falling off some invisible cliff, that maybe he already has, how close the two of them are to never being friends again and having this - silence, fear, the memory of That Night - between them forever.
Their dinner that night right after the Garner case... He’d felt the words, could hear them ringing in his head, words he’d used to help other friends through their addiction, words his sponsor had said, even though Danny had cursed him while he’d said them. Even as he’d reached for courage enough to spit them out, he’d watched Martin plowing through his chicken marsala, staying away from the wine - smart, if he had any medication in his system - and that had seemed normal. Too desperately normal, and the little voice of cowardice had said look, he’s eating, that’s good. He’s good, you’re good, don’t worry.
But he can’t convince himself of this anymore, and so he’s standing outside Martin’s apartment building on a miserable winter night, leaning on the buzzer.
Martin’s voice finally breaks through, static-distorted voice cutting the buzzer off.
“What?” Rough and testy, slight quaver in it.
“Martin, it’s me. Let me up.” Danny rubs his hands together and pulls his coat tighter as a gust of wind howls down the street, stares fixedly at the intercom and wills Martin to say something. “C’mon man, it’s fucking freezing out here.”
A long, dead silence and Danny’s almost certain Martin’s going to refuse to let him in when the buzzer sounds and the locks disengage. No reply past that, only the knocking of Danny’s own heart as he takes the elevator to the third floor. His footsteps are loud in the empty hallway, the entire building quiet, seeming to listen.
He lifts a hand to knock on Martin’s door when it swings open, and Martin’s standing there. Dressed - badly, but dressed - in jeans and an oxford over a t-shirt. Most people would see typical Martin, self-possessed and unwilling to do something as casual as wear jeans without a button-down shirt, but Danny catches the patches of stubble, the red rims under Martin’s eyes, the fine quiver in his hands as Martin pulls the door open and motions for Danny to step in.
“What’re you doing here?” The door shuts, the sound loud and final, made louder by the softness of Martin’s question.
“Came over to see how you were doing,” Danny says. He pulls his coat off and hands it to Martin, who drapes it over his own, carelessly tossed over the back of a living room chair. Danny’s heart skips bizarrely at the sight.
“I’m okay,” Martin says, hovering between confusion and suspicion.
“You sure?” Danny knows there’s worry and fear in his voice, can’t help it, can only try to cover with his usual insouciance. “’Cause I gotta say, Fitz, you looked pretty rough when you came out of Jack’s office.”
Martin had had to turn his weapon in, pending investigation of Vincent Weaver’s death. He’d probably been treated to a lecture from Jack about going in without backup, but Danny hadn’t been able to overhear.
“Yeah, well, I got reamed out by Jack,” Martin says, managing to sound angry and rueful at the same time. He walks around to the far side of the couch, closer to the kitchen, as though needing some barrier between himself and Danny.
“Know how that is.” Danny can feel the conversation sliding away from what it needs to be, but doesn’t know how to bring it back without Martin catching on. “So... did Jack tell you to take time off or anything?”
“Not supposed to go in Monday or Tuesday.” Martin turns away, heading for the kitchen, and Danny takes in the slight stiffness of his gait, the tension in his shoulders. “You want a drink?”
“Water, if you got it.”
“Fresh out of water, sorry.” Martin rattles around in the cupboards, and a moment later the faucet turns on.
Danny takes the opportunity to nose around Martin’s living room, which is predictably spare and lacking in any distinct style, dominated mostly by books and photographs, a fleece blanket hastily folded across the back of the couch, a stack of FBI manuals on the coffee table. He flops down on the couch to more closely inspect the titles - safety and procedure, which make him sleepy just thinking about them.
There’s a small yellow bottle under the coffee table and Danny freezes, staring at it.
Martin’s still moving around in the kitchen, but the faucet’s off. Before he can think too much about it, Danny picks the bottle up, flips it in his hand to look at the label and see exactly what it is that Martin’s taking.
“Hey, I got some potato chips if you’re - ” Martin’s voice is loud, breaking in on Danny’s distraction, and Danny jumps, turns before he can stop himself.
Martin’s gaze darts down, eyes going wide as they fix on the bottle in Danny’s hand. A bag of potato chips hits the floor with an insignificant plop. Martin sets the glass down on a side table, hand shaking so badly the water spills, soaking into the carpet.
“Danny, c’mon, hand it over.” Martin’s voice is a parody of his usual commanding tone, cracking under the strain of demand.
“What’s this?” Danny holds the bottle up, shakes it so the pills rattle, a wordless accusation. Martin reaches automatically for it.
“It’s nothing.” Martin makes a grab for the bottle, but Danny twists around and pulls it out of reach.
“‘Gina Hill?’” He stares at Martin, who’s frozen, watching him with a mixture of desperation and wariness, eyes flickering back and forth between Danny’s face and the pills in Danny’s hand. “Oh God, Martin... please tell me these aren’t hers.”
Martin stares at him helplessly, opens his mouth to say something, and nothing comes out.
-tbc-
Is that enough angst for you all? :)