Author: Elina
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Archive: my homepage (check the profile), Pretty FBI Boys, if there's a list archive, it may have it.
Disclaimer: Let me check... Hmmmm... Nope. Still not mine. Darn.
Rating: PG
Summary:Future, Present, Past: Three Two-Hundred-Word Drabbles
Three Tenses of Warmth
Future
It's not the pizza delivery guy knocking at your door.
"Martin?"
He doesn't answer as he pushes past you into your apartment. You have no other choice but to close the door and follow him in.
He stands in the middle of your living room, looking weary and somewhat irritated. You know it's not because of you from the distant look he has in his eyes. Two seconds and your brain connects the visit of one Victor Fitzgerald and his current mood. Yet you still don't know what he's doing here.
His jaw is clenched, and you expect acid words. Until he turns, and the look in his eyes is nothing but lost, hurt and something else you can't interpret. It vanishes behind a mask he pulls on in a blink of an eye. (He must've had lots of practice.) For once you don't know what to say.
Then again, maybe you don't have to. Because he takes two fast strides forward. Hovers for a second as if deciding. Traces the letters that are printed on the front of your sweatshirt with his index finger. Looks up to you.
His breath is already kissing you even before his lips touch your own.
Present
His body is warm against yours, his face buried in your neck. His hand's resting idly on your chest.
Your breath is still ragged -- his too. Your eyes are screwed shut, savoring the release still drumming through your veins. You don't want to open them, to see the room bathing in light glowing from the pendant lamp; you know the brightness would absorb the heat still vivid under your skin. You regret not hitting the switch when you stumbled into the bedroom, trying to manage kissing and walking at the same time.
"Danny?" Hardly a whisper, and you might have missed it had you not felt his lips move.
You never pictured him as the type to talk after sex, but then again you never imagined this to actually happen, so instead of a snide comment you offer an off-balanced, "Yeah?"
You know he's about to say something, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him, the way his jaw clenches, and you find yourself unconsciously preparing yourself. But, then, "Nothing." Subdued. He lifts his head. The undefined sadness in his eyes - true. His smile - fake. He kisses you. You don't ask which one that is.
Past
You don't know what wakes you up, if it's the sounds of the night or the lack of them, but suddenly you find yourself on the hazy edge between dream and awareness. Slowly you force your eyes open a crack. 2:34 your alarm clock informs with blunt, glaring numbers from its place on the nightstand. The night air on your naked back makes you shiver.
The taste of sleep is still thick on your tongue, its weight sinking you into the mattress, yet somehow through the fog you register that something's amiss. You force your head around, from facing the window to facing the dark room.
The bedroom door is firmly shut -- something you don't remember it being just before you fell asleep. The spot next to you on the bed is full of creases, printed with the scent of his body. There's still an impression on the pillow. You don't raise your hand to see if it's cold or not.
You don't have to call out to know he's not there. It would be Martin to sneak off in the middle of the night, and for some reason, you can't find it in you to be even remotely surprised.
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Archive: my homepage (check the profile), Pretty FBI Boys, if there's a list archive, it may have it.
Disclaimer: Let me check... Hmmmm... Nope. Still not mine. Darn.
Rating: PG
Summary:Future, Present, Past: Three Two-Hundred-Word Drabbles
Three Tenses of Warmth
Future
It's not the pizza delivery guy knocking at your door.
"Martin?"
He doesn't answer as he pushes past you into your apartment. You have no other choice but to close the door and follow him in.
He stands in the middle of your living room, looking weary and somewhat irritated. You know it's not because of you from the distant look he has in his eyes. Two seconds and your brain connects the visit of one Victor Fitzgerald and his current mood. Yet you still don't know what he's doing here.
His jaw is clenched, and you expect acid words. Until he turns, and the look in his eyes is nothing but lost, hurt and something else you can't interpret. It vanishes behind a mask he pulls on in a blink of an eye. (He must've had lots of practice.) For once you don't know what to say.
Then again, maybe you don't have to. Because he takes two fast strides forward. Hovers for a second as if deciding. Traces the letters that are printed on the front of your sweatshirt with his index finger. Looks up to you.
His breath is already kissing you even before his lips touch your own.
Present
His body is warm against yours, his face buried in your neck. His hand's resting idly on your chest.
Your breath is still ragged -- his too. Your eyes are screwed shut, savoring the release still drumming through your veins. You don't want to open them, to see the room bathing in light glowing from the pendant lamp; you know the brightness would absorb the heat still vivid under your skin. You regret not hitting the switch when you stumbled into the bedroom, trying to manage kissing and walking at the same time.
"Danny?" Hardly a whisper, and you might have missed it had you not felt his lips move.
You never pictured him as the type to talk after sex, but then again you never imagined this to actually happen, so instead of a snide comment you offer an off-balanced, "Yeah?"
You know he's about to say something, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him, the way his jaw clenches, and you find yourself unconsciously preparing yourself. But, then, "Nothing." Subdued. He lifts his head. The undefined sadness in his eyes - true. His smile - fake. He kisses you. You don't ask which one that is.
Past
You don't know what wakes you up, if it's the sounds of the night or the lack of them, but suddenly you find yourself on the hazy edge between dream and awareness. Slowly you force your eyes open a crack. 2:34 your alarm clock informs with blunt, glaring numbers from its place on the nightstand. The night air on your naked back makes you shiver.
The taste of sleep is still thick on your tongue, its weight sinking you into the mattress, yet somehow through the fog you register that something's amiss. You force your head around, from facing the window to facing the dark room.
The bedroom door is firmly shut -- something you don't remember it being just before you fell asleep. The spot next to you on the bed is full of creases, printed with the scent of his body. There's still an impression on the pillow. You don't raise your hand to see if it's cold or not.
You don't have to call out to know he's not there. It would be Martin to sneak off in the middle of the night, and for some reason, you can't find it in you to be even remotely surprised.