New York to Denver

………

The gravitational pull that pushed Danny Messer securely into his seat on flight 647 made his stomach knot tightly, and inwardly he groaned. His hatred of flying, mixed with the steady decline of his fourth wind, and a nagging doubt that he had just made to worst decision of his life bore down heavily on him. He tugged his frames off his features, cringing wearily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his heart rate to slow, and sleep to take him. He stretched his feet out, propping them up against the bar under the seat in front of him, slouching just enough to pillow his head against the back of the synthetic fibers supporting him.

He was vaguely trying to decide whether or not the four and a half hours that lay between him and Denver would be suited better for a nap or strategic planning. He balanced his glasses back on his nose as the plane leveled in the air, and as the LED illuminating the seatbelt sign died, he settled in for a few hours of much needed sleep. He'd figure out what to say to her on the connecting flight from Denver to Bozeman. He was in no shape to be making potentially life-altering decisions.

He used to fly almost everyday, back when he was playing ball, when the future of his career was beginning to look like Wrigley Field. Day game in Syracuse, night game in Pawtucket. Wave to the sparkling outline of Staten Island as it passes beneath the plane, en route to Charlotte for a night's sleep in a dingy, one and a half star motel before pushing his all into improving his numbers before showering in a crusty, degraded locker room, boarding another plane, and heading out west, following the sun to Oklahoma, Toledo, Portland. His fingers made their way to his shoulder, slipping beneath the leather of his jacket and the cotton of his polo shirt, feeling for the hardened scar, remnant of the labral tear and the subsequent repair that had cost him a spot in the Chicago line up, bringing him, ultimately, to NYPD, and Mac Taylor.

He'd never been thankful for the injury, really, had always resented the early death of his career at the hands of one very bad pitch, and one badly timed catch, combined with one very bad punch in one seedy bar in Minneapolis. Danny rolled his head to the side, letting his attention be caught by the pinpricks of light below him, interrupting the black earth. When the dust settled on this one, he was going to track down Jake Winters and thank him for hitting the grounder that ultimately sent him to the OR. He fidgeted uneasily, hoping he had gone with the right instinct.

"Business or pleasure?" The amicable, eager voice beside him invaded his thoughts, and he turned away from the window, gauging the older man with a weary expression. He had to be early fifties, his heavy build clothed in a tasteful dark suit, a kindly smile fixed to his clean-shaven jaw. Danny sighed exhaustively before giving in and answering.

"A girl." Danny ran a hand through his hair, stifling a groan and stopping his eyes from rolling as the other man chuckled heartily. There was no point in evading him; Danny quickly realized he was trapped in his seat. Suddenly he felt like Edward Norton in that fighting movie. His single-serving friend, however, bore no resemblance at all to Brad Pitt. For that, he was thankful. At least he knew that this was real.

"Yeah, you've got that look."

"What look?" The last thing he wanted was Lindsay to think he was there to get laid. He watched the man beside him frown, and wave his hand in a circular motion, trying to find the right words.

"You know. The look of a man trying not to fall for a woman." He smiled, watching Danny adjust his glasses, letting out a trace of a smile. He offered his hand, coupling it with an easy smirk.

"Charlie Feehan." Danny took it, shaking Charlie's hand firmly.

"Danny Messer." There was an easy distraction, sitting right beside him. He wouldn't have to think about Lindsay, or about how angry Mac was going to be with him, or what to say when the plane touched down in Bozeman. Charlie's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What kind of work do you do?" Danny let out a short laugh; reluctant to believe they were really going through with the single-serving conversation.

"I'm a cop. NYPD." Danny settled back against the seat, letting his eyelids droop for only a second. "What about you?"

"I manage a bank in Denver. On my way home from a conference." Charlie knitted his fingers over his belly, and turned his attention fully on Danny. There was something about him that was encouraging, despite the worn down, troubled expression on his face. He'd been fighting off guys like this from dating his oldest daughter for years, looking like they just climbed off a Harley, the stubble along his jaw proving that he hadn't shaved in days, blending in with his goatee. If any of them had looked at Hannah like this guy was staring out the window, though, he would have given his blessing readily, and booked the hall himself. "What's her name?"

"Lindsay." Danny answered automatically, dropping his voice to a low, husky timbre. He could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up on him slowly, and he stifled the beginnings of a smile that had started to curve on his lip. "Nah, it's not -we, ah, we work together." There was a hardened resolve in the younger man's words, and Charlie assumed that either Danny and his partner were closer than the average pair of cops, or that the affection he felt for her was one-sided. He chuckled, he couldn't help it. The cop sitting beside him reminded him too much of himself.

"That's what I used to say about my wife." Danny's eyes immediately focused on the older man's left hand, realizing that his observational skills were not waning; there was no wedding band on Charlie's finger. "Always a bit scandalous when there's an office romance. Added to the fun." Charlie frowned, pushing the negative thoughts of his beloved wife out of his mind for now. They had been doomed from the start, really, but that wasn't what the younger man beside him needed to hear. He had a growing suspicion Danny Messer hadn't afforded himself the opportunity to come to terms with his own feelings. "Your Lindsay, she's a cop as well?"

His Lindsay. He wanted her so bad his chest hurt.

"Yeah. We're detectives with the Crime Lab. Forensics experts." There was a pregnant pause, and Charlie shifted in his seat, fixing Danny with a gentle expression.

"Forgive me if I'm out of line, Detective, but." Charlie cocked an eyebrow, a bit confused. "What's she doing in Denver?"

"Bozeman. She's in Bozeman. I got a connecting flight. She's from Montana, originally." Danny pursed his lips, fighting off the beginning traces of a heavy migraine from lack of sleep and lack of caffeine. God, he was exhausted. The dull ache in his chest spread leisurely to his knee, claiming weariness rather than tense affection. "Country girl."

"She visiting family, then?"

"Among other things." He was too drained to be annoyed, too tired to reassemble his New Yorker wall that had crumbled into dust over the last seventy-two hours. He didn't want to waste the strength getting his single serving friend to mind his own business. He had a feeling he was going to need it in Bozeman. For her, or, if everything fell apart, for himself. "I just need her." He mumbled softly, wincing as he leaned his elbow on the armrest, propping his head up on a hand. "I forgot how t'do my job without her."

The unyielding affection the younger man felt for this girl was engraved in his every movement, his every word. The man beside him had lost the tough cop exterior, though Charlie didn't doubt the man had it in him. That façade that his son loved to watch on all those TV shows, he had a feeling, was a reality in Danny Messer's life. The heavy weight of his accent suggested he was a native New Yorker. Charlie Feehan could only figure that he had developed real feelings for this girl, and, although he wasn't one to judge on appearance, he was willing to bet the younger man wasn't used to a chase.

"So you're going to get her?"

"Nah. I gotta make sure she's okay." He shoved a hand in his pocket, slumping in the seat dejectedly, shrugging. "She's dealin' with some stuff." There was more to that, Charlie, knew, but by the way the younger man was fidgeting, he chose not to push the subject any further. Danny let out a long sigh evenly as the cabin of the plane jarred marginally, the telltale sign of slight turbulence, his fingers tightening around the armrest to his left, against the window. There was never anything as unnatural as people flying, and he'd never fully get used to the sensation of hopelessness he associated with propelling through the atmosphere at thirty two thousand feet. After his slugging abilities, his tolerance for air travel was the first of his baseball traits to lay to waste.

He suspected the dull itch in his chest was residue of uneasy panic, brought on by the jostling of the plane, remaining due to his hesitantly growing fear of landing. Sure, he had made rash decisions in the past, but she had nearly always been there to ground him, roll her eyes at him. She had a habit of smiling at him with a crooked smirk that told him he had become too wrapped up in an aspect of a case, giving her fresh air opinion offhandedly, like the Mafia wasn't real, or that the traffic on the GW was a product of too many cars instead of a government conspiracy. She disassembled his superstitions and his New Yorker habits, questioning city jargon and city tactics, keeping him honest while always having his back. Feeling Charlie's careful eye, he coughed once, clearing his throat, shifting him his seat to straighten marginally, alleviating discomfort in his lower back, a failed attempt to appear at ease.

"So what are you going to say?" Charlie's question pulled Danny out of his thoughts, and he cocked an eyebrow at his single-serving friend tiredly.

"Huh?"

"When you get to Montana. What are you going to say to her?" Charlie frowned, watching as the gritty New Yorker beside him bit down on his bottom lip, mulling over his immediate future. The muscles in his arm flexed rigidly, from what Charlie assumed was nerves.

"I, uh." Danny pursed his lips, breathing a short sigh, fixing his gaze on the synthetic fibers of the seat in front of him. He shoved his hand in the pockets of his jeans, crinkling his brow in concentration. "I dunno."

"Well, it falls only just shy of eloquent." The older man chuckled, seeing Danny shrug.

"I can't get her outta my head." Danny tried to smile at the toddler in one of the seats in front of them, peering over the top of the upholstery, eyeing him with large, innocent brown eyes. He groaned, giving up. "She's everywhere. She's on every sidewalk. Every subway. In the halls. Elevators. Labs. She's under my skin. I was so bent on hating her, that I was completely blindsided. There's this empty place in my chest, and it hurts, you know? This is crazy." Danny's tone shifted quickly, and he slipped his fingers under his lenses, rubbing the exhaustion and panic from his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fighting off a wave of nausea. "What the hell am I doing?" He mumbled, closing his eyes in an attempt to make it all disappear.

"The body does funny things when it's far from the heart."

"I'm learning." Detecting nostalgia in his tone, Danny turned to observe Charlie Feehan's profile. "So what'd your body do?"

"Excuse me?"

"When you were away from your wife." Danny sat back again, studying the man beside him with undivided attention. "You're not wearing a wedding band." Charlie offered him a weak smile, straightening the fingers of his left hand and glancing down briefly before turning to look the detective straight in the eye.

"I was already married to my job by the time I married Jan. Late nights, early mornings, the whole nine yards. She went part time when we started a family, wanted to spend more time at home with the kids. We've got twins, Hannah and Randy, just turned 19, and then Amy, who's 16, and Emily, who'll be 12 in about a month. I spent the whole marriage at the office, I was trying to support our family, but we hardly saw each other. Started to act more like roommates than husband and wife. She called it off about a year ago."

"Sorry to hear that." Danny's features fell into a compassionate expression, but Charlie waved it off.

"We never had a chance. I always put work first. Biggest flaw, biggest regret." The older man smiled kindly, lost for a moment in thoughts of his failed marriage, before returning his focus to his younger companion. "Don't do that. It never ends well."

"I'll keep it in mind." Danny's smile was short, forced, and Charlie got the impression both Detective Messer and his partner clocked a lot of overtime. Danny pulled his glasses from his nose, squinting to inspect the lenses, wiping them idly on the bottom of his polo shirt. "We work a lot." Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but Danny continued. "Together, alotta the times. We got a rhythm. Work well together." He pushed the frames of his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, wedging almost uncomfortably into the seat. "The chemistry just flies outta the test tubes with us, you know? And she's miserable. I mean, I talked to her a few days ago, and she was barely holdin' it together. Star witness in decade-old murders. It was bad enough she had'ta live it the first time, never mind havin' it explode all around her. I wanna think she needs me." Danny sighed, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "I'm beginnin'ta think it's me who needs her."

"Do you love her?" Charlie asked abruptly.

"Yes." Danny answered automatically, before he realized he was startled. Did he really? He wanted her, but it was more than that. He wanted the scent of her hair in his pillow, and he wanted stop restraining himself from kissing her. He'd been the one who was miserable, moping around the lab like someone had just run over his puppy. He wanted her smile to be because he'd put it there, wanted his mother to love her. Most of all, though, he wanted to save her from her childhood like she had saved him; pull her out of the horror she'd left behind, bring her back East where she belonged.

"May I offer a suggestion, Detective?"

"Sure." Danny spoke slowly, frowning at his single serving friend. Charlie pursed his lips, taking a moment. This kid beside him was all city, and the state of Montana was one of the more rural places in the Unites States. City and country, that was like oil and water. Danny's accent had trudged heavily to his ear, and Charlie suspected by his slouching posture and days-old stubble that he hadn't gotten a tremendous amount of sleep in the past week. Maybe month. As the ratio of hours of awake time to hours of sleep became greater and greater, thoughts behind actions and words tended to become less and less. Detective Messer had no idea what he was walking in to.

"Don't speak."