Spoilers: Wooty! Some late-afternoon angst. This is actually quite different from anything I've written before. But, hey, that's the fun of a challenge! I think I've had five coffees today. Oops. Tea from now on, and it's not even four in the afternoon.
Disclaimer: Desperado! Why don't you come to your senses?
Author's Note: Another FCG Challenge! Yay! It's been too long.
1. Must include the phrase "I just don't know."
2. Must be between 990 and 9,990 words.
3. May be any rating greater than K+ and less than MA.
4. Must involve a fight. Interpret at will (as always).
5. Must involve a secret. (Optional.)
Has to include: "Always half a step behind," and, "You can't escape your genes."
Martin stood in front of his father's desk awkwardly. Home from school for the long weekend, he figured he may as well do something productive, so here he stood. Victor, for his part, had only glanced at him over a stack of paperwork and a tumbler of whiskey long enough to acknowledge his presence.
Martin knew better than to take that as a signal to start talking.
He remained silent as his father signed a few sheets of officially-stamped paper, making sure he stood in a position of confidence and importance. He clasped his hands loosely in front of him and raised his chin, face inoffensively emotionless. He knew that when his father finally looked up, he would see the son he had raised so closely in his own image.
This made Martin smirk on the inside; his father might just blow an artery when he found out just what he'd created.
After a few more minutes, Victor looked up, wary, but stern. Martin thought he actually glimpsed curiosity in his father's eyes. It wouldn't have been unprecedented; Martin had ventured, voluntarily, into Victor's study a grand total of once. He had been five at the time and he'd learned his lesson via rather excessive amounts of yelling.
"Son," Victor prodded. Though it may have been a greeting. Even after sixteen years it was hard to tell – not that Martin really cared.
"Dad," he replied, happy that his voice wasn't betraying his nervousness. Despite the amount of times he had rehearsed this moment in his head, he still took a few minutes to collect his thoughts.
It wouldn't do to give Victor a way out of this conversation; and Martin knew he'd be looking for one. It was half the reason he'd decided to tell Victor in the first place: spite.
"I have something to tell you," he said decisively, actually managing to intrigue Victor enough to put down his pen.
"Is it very important?" he asked, sounding like he was bored yet dreading the conversation. The inner-smirk grew a little despite Martin's sweating palms.
"Yes, it's important," Martin clarified, trying not to wound impatient. Victor grunted noncommittally, raised his chin and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. It didn't escape Martin how similar their positions were; made him rather uncomfortable, and he wondered whether Victor had done that on purpose.
Martin denied the urge to fidget.
"Proceed, Martin; I'm busy," Victor said, impatience showing through. Martin's jaw clenched, but he remained otherwise motionless. He drew in a deep breath and summoned the mental shield he'd been developing for the past few years.
"I'm gay, dad," Martin said finally, surprised when his voice sounded slightly bored, like he was reminding his father of a long-known fact.
And that was what he had been after. That: the absolute look of shock on Victor's face that Martin was sure he'd never seen before.
But then it was gone.
And Victor was grinning. Laughing.
Martin's brows pulled together. What the hell was going on?
"Gay," he managed between chuckles. "Gay?" It didn't occur to Martin until later that this was probably the only time he'd ever seen his father laugh.
Martin stood, feeling rather shell-shocked. He still hadn't figured out what was going on. He wasn't sure whether he should answer Victor, either. Martin stopped wondering when he heard him sigh – almost contentedly, and what was happening? – then chuckle once more.
It occurred to Martin that his father might think he was joking. Though why he'd think that was beyond him; he could not remember a single shared joke between he and his father. Maybe he'd just missed them all.
Martin remained silent, musing, until Victor spoke.
"You're not gay, Martin."
Said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and wasn't that the last thing Martin expected to hear? He just raised his eyebrows; he had a feeling that nothing he said would convince his father of the truth. It sometimes worried him that this man was in the FBI.
But that wasn't the issue, here. The issue was, that Martin was fairly damn certain that he was, in fact, attracted to men.
Victor calmed suddenly.
"Martin," he started, voice now sober, "I have never had this discussion with you," he muttered awkwardly, clearing his throat. And that was just plain terrifying. Having The Talk. With his father. At the age of sixteen. After outing himself.
Not possible.
"And I'm not going to now," he continued. Martin was pretty sure he physically relaxed at that, but couldn't care, because his father did, too. "But these... feelings, Martin..." he cleared his throat again, "they only mean that you are growing up."
Oh, God. So much for not having The Talk. But not even the Sex Talk. The Puberty Talk. Martin felt a little like crying, partially out of embarrassment, and partially out of frustration.
He was, despite what Victor seemed to think, gay. Of that he was sure. While his father muttered along in front of him – something about locker rooms and boarding school and testosterone – Martin just tuned out.
Locker rooms, actually, were the least of his problems. He thought it ironic, really, that the discovery of his sexuality hadn't, in fact, come from locker rooms, or swim practice. It would have been rather fitting, really; all those wet, naked, athletic bodies just there. But the truth of the matter was that Martin hated all his teammates and classmates enough to curb any kind of erotic or lustful feelings he may have had towards them.
He rather sincerely loathed most of them enough to simply shudder upon sight – and not out of arousal. Funny, he thought, that the locker-room was probably the safest place in the school – more irony to add to his list – in which he could have shown any signs of physical arousal and be ignored.
It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for one of the boys to walk around parading himself if such a thing did happen. If anything, Martin was considered a freak because he didn't.
And really, the world was just full of irony.
"Martin," he heard Victor snap. Martin almost gave himself whiplash, he looked up so quickly.
Seeing the traces of amusement in Victor's eyes, Martin felt a flare of anger. He'd just told his father the most important revelation he'd ever had, and Victor had just laughed it off.
He'd ignored his father, and his father probably knew that. He decided with amazement, though, that he really didn't care as much as he probably should. Victor could – and did, apparently – think whatever he wanted to.
It still irked him that Victor thought so little of him, but he could live with that.
Martin's heart was in his throat. More than that, it seemed his entire physical existence was concentrated entirely on his throat. So much weight, so much pressure and it was hard to breathe. He'd heard of the denial, of the confusion that should come with this, but all he felt was numb. Numb and breathless, like he was drowning in freezing water, fallen into a lake in the dead of winter.
Because he couldn't hear anything, either. Muffled sounds that he knew he should recognise but just couldn't bring himself to focus on because they weren't important. It didn't really matter what they were; they were irrelevant. Noise meant no more to him right now than astrophysics to an infant.
He supposed, though, that numbness was a good thing. If he didn't have to deal with everything else, he could just get on with his life, with his work. Perhaps being a little numb could even benefit his work. It worried him, he suddenly realised, how clear his thoughts were. He hadn't shut down like most emotionally stable people would have, which only worried him more, and self-pity was an ironic emotion given the circumstances.
He didn't bother to still his meandering mind; let it go off in ways he was sure he never had before.
He still couldn't bring himself to care.
Danny smiled automatically as he stepped out of the elevator. He hadn't been called in on a case this morning, which made today a promising one. He straightened as he reached the squad room doors, grinning as he saw Vivian approach. One look at her, and his smile faltered a little.
From the expression on her face, there was definitely a case. She smiled weakly, as if understanding his disappointment, and disappeared into Jack's office. Samantha followed seconds later, shooting Danny the same – almost sympathetic – look, only more baffled. Like this case made no sense at all.
Today was going to be swell.
He walked into the bullpen, searching instantly for Martin, in the mood for some cheering up before his day really went to hell.
But apparently Martin had already beaten the day to it. Danny's smile faded completely and his stomach knotted.
Martin sat at his desk, eyes slightly glassy, as if plagued by an especially nasty hangover. Danny's first thought was that Martin was back on the painkillers. The thought terrified him enough to make him stand still. Martin still hadn't noticed his presence yet – at least, he hadn't acknowledged it, which made his 'painkillers' theory that much more plausible – so he took the opportunity to look him over.
Head to toe, Martin looked like hell. He looked ruffled, really, and not in an attractive way. His hair was messy, his eyes were dark and glassy, his face unshaven. What really caught Danny's attention, though, were his clothes.
Martin had a terrible dress sense, but he always dressed well. Clean, tidy, but today… Today his tie was loose, one cuff unbuttoned, and Danny was fairly certain that under his jacket, Martin's shirt was on backwards.
"Martin," he called softly, trying to get his attention without startling him. He quelled the urge to go straight to Martin, to touch him, worried that that might achieve nothing more than to freak him out. And he'd dealt with enough addicts to know not to do that; known Martin long enough to know not to do that.
Unfortunately, that seemed to be what Martin needed – he didn't appear to have heard Danny at all.
Casting a quick glance around the office – to check for what, he didn't know – he took a step closer. Making sure to first show himself in Martin's peripheral vision, he reached out and squeezed Martin's shoulder.
"Martin," he repeated, keeping his voice low. Martin's head snapped up at the contact and the expression in Martin's eyes was enough for Danny to forget everything he wanted to say.
The most amazing amount of pain and a sort of acute awareness filled his eyes – perhaps released by the surprise of seeing Danny – before his eyes again became lifeless.
Taking a few seconds to regain his composure, Danny opened his mouth, still not sure exactly what he wanted to say, when he heard Jack calling from the other side of the room.
"Martin," was all he said. And apparently Martin was a popular man today. Danny shot Jack an angry and worried glance. Worried for Martin, and angry at Jack for interrupting him. But Jack seemed to know what was going on, and Danny wanted to know. Martin certainly wasn't in any shape to tell him.
Danny frowned and turned to Martin, who was still staring at him vacantly, but frowning, as if not quite sure where he was but knowing that he wasn't supposed to be there. Which was a silly thought, because of course Martin knew where he was, and of course he was supposed to be here. He spent more time at the office than at home.
Danny's eyes flicked to Jack, and this time, Martin's followed.
"My office," Jack ordered quietly before turning and retreating expectantly.
Danny felt movement under his hand and turned back to see Martin staring at him again. This time, though, his frown was of utter confusion, like he had as little idea as to his state of mind as Danny did.
But his eyes were clear, and Danny suddenly knew it wasn't the painkillers.
Sight seemed to be the only sense functioning properly today. Everything reached his brain, neurons firing from every sensory nerve, but only sight was actually processed. The rest was stored somewhere with sound: junk information sent to his brain that was rejected on impact. Danny had snuck up on him, and that shouldn't have happened, he shouldn't have let that happen.
But despite his ability to see absurdly clearly, he couldn't really will himself to do anything about it. Once his eyes had settled on Danny, they had simply stayed there. Now, standing in Jack's office, he could recall with near perfection every emotion that had played across his partner's face in those few seconds.
The thing he remembered most, though, was not the concern, but the terror. He knew what Danny was thinking – that he was abusing painkillers again – and wanted, so badly, to tell him that that wasn't it, that it wasn't the drugs.
Which was stupid, because Danny was a detective and he'd figure things out eventually. It was really a matter of what he would do once he did. Actually, the idea of taking drugs hadn't even occurred to him because he wasn't in pain. He wasn't even under the illusion that he was in pain. Which was almost painful in itself.
Still, the urge to talk to Danny was the only time today that he had wanted human contact, of any form. Someone had tried earlier – at the hospital, he thought – to say something to him, clinical words of comfort, or consolation, or something equally as inane. He had had the presence of mind to shy away from physical contact, too. He remembered a hand reaching for his arm, didn't remember jerking his arm away, but must have, because the hand had never connected.
He didn't remember who the hand had belonged to.
It wasn't a proud day; not like it should have been. Martin wasn't especially happy that this day had come, but more uninterested. It was an inevitable thing, and inevitable things tended to be incredibly overrated.
He wondered if anyone here shared his lack of enthusiasm.
Looking from his book to the other boys, he thought not. Every one of them stood around casually in their maroon robes, chatting in groups, smoking despite the protests of their teachers. It was like any lunch time, only the air almost hummed with energy and Martin was actually among them.
A couple of boys passed between them a flask of God only knew what, nudging each other and all but giggling.
Martin really didn't want to be here.
As far as he was concerned, all graduation meant was a fast-track to low-key politics and forty or so more years of being shoved into a desk chair in a room full of unintelligent, egocentric losers. Nothing but a repeat performance of high school, really.
He wished that they would just let him leave, send him the damned certificate in the mail. He honestly didn't see the importance of these ceremonies; didn't see the logic in congratulating people for things they didn't really do.
It wasn't a coincidence that the one boy who scored higher than him in Math was a senator's son.
For Martin's part, the only achievement throughout high school had been hiding himself far enough off the radar to get by in one sane, relatively dignified piece.
"Yo, Fitzgerald!" someone called. Forcing himself not to groan at the interruption, he sought the owner of the voice. Great. "You want some whiskey?"
Martin barely managed to suppress an eye roll at that. He knew without a doubt that the kid was baiting him; Carlos Pruitt seemed to take strange amounts of amusement in failing to annoy Martin.
"No, thanks," he said without emotion, looking again at his book, trying to focus on the words as Carlos and his slightly-drunk friend moved a little closer. Martin really didn't see what about him was so fascinating that it warranted so damned much attention. His parents certainly didn't, either.
Maybe it was genetic.
"Why not, Pansy?" he prodded. Martin sighed and raised an eyebrow; the insult wasn't really insulting. Carlos didn't actually know Martin's tendencies to fantasize about men, so it was nothing more than a name to call him. Probably because he couldn't remember Martin's actual name.
When Martin didn't bother to answer, the boy took a step closer, smirking. Here is comes, Martin thought with another sigh. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, boredly.
"Your Daddy gonna arrest you if you do?" His words were slightly slurred.
The other boy snickered and Martin couldn't help but laugh a little. It was the kind of thing that made him want to smack his head against a solid object out of disbelief at the utter stupidity of some people. This baiting seemed to be the favourite kind of insult around here - pride in family and all that.
Unfortunately for the vast majority of boys who had tried this on him, Martin couldn't care less about his parents' egos. His relationship with his father was like one between somewhat reluctant business partners who just happened to share some genetic material. His relationship with his mother was even less direct.
"Always half a step behind," Martin muttered at the kid, shaking his head. He snorted in amusement when the boy's face registered nothing but confusion. "Go away, Carlos," he said indifferently, because really, he didn't care whether Carlos left or not.
"You didn't answer my question, Geek," he accused. And no, Carlos could not remember his first name.
Typical.
"You can't change your genes." He offered nothing more than that and an apologetic smile, relishing a little too much in the way Carlos stared at him, then at his pants, then back again, trying not to show confusion. Homophones were fun.
Just as Carlos was about to say something, though, Martin heard his name being called from behind him.
He turned just in time to see his father approaching. He suppressed another groan; he hadn't even thought his parents would come. Which was probably a stupid assessment, as his parents never missed an opportunity to publicly confirm their 'love' for their only som. And Martin knew that that was unfair, knew his parents loved him on some level.
They just weren't capable of showing it.
"Martin," Victor acknowledged, and Martin tried not to laugh when Carlos walked away too quickly, stumbling a little.
"Dad," he responded. "It's Friday afternoon." His father understood immediately. Why aren't you working? It was a bit disturbing, actually, that he and this person he barely knew – let alone liked – could talk in code.
"It's your graduation, son," Victor stated like it was all the answer needed. And, Martin supposed, it was. Martin's graduation meant one thing: That the control Victor held over his life through the school was gone. From now on, as much as they both hated it, it was Victor's responsibility to 'keep' Martin on track.
Martin had never really found the track in the first place.
Victor cleared his throat in the usual awkward way he did whilst around Martin and extended a hand towards his son. For a second, Martin thought with dread that his father was going to shake his hand, but he felt shifting weight on his shoulder, instead.
Martin consciously reminded himself not to stare in bewilderment. Victor patted his shoulder a few times, awkward as ever with physical contact, and nodded.
"I'm…" He cleared his throat again. "I'm proud of you, son."
And Martin knew he meant it.
As soon as he saw Martin leave, Danny made his way to Jack's office. He struggled to keep his steps even, balling his hands at his sides, trying not to show too much of his frustration. Jack had sent Martin home, that much was clear, but Danny wanted to know why. Wanted to know what had caused Martin so much pain, and he knew that Jack knew. Knew that Vivian and Samantha probably did, too, and couldn't figure out why no one had told him.
He was Martin's partner, his closest friend and whatever the hell else they were.
He didn't bother knocking on Jack's door – who knocked on glass? – before striding in. He crossed his arms over his chest, and Jack simply looked at him as if he expected as much. Neither said anything for a few minutes, until Danny realised that whatever it was, Jack wasn't going to tell him unless he asked.
"What happened, Jack?" he asked, knowing he didn't need to say more. Jack seemed to struggle with something and Danny damned him and his morality. Some secrets needed to be shared.
"Danny…" He stopped and frowned, and Danny was pretty sure the Jack wasn't going to tell him.
"Don't do this to me, Jack," he pleaded sternly. "I thought it was the painkillers, but it's not, is it?"
"Painkillers?" Jack questioned, and apparently miscommunication was big around here.
"Jack," he stressed. "He's my partner. If there's something wrong with him, I think I deserve to know." Which was the last thing he really wanted to say, the last reason he really wanted to know, but he had a feeling that Jack was reading the subtext in everything he said, anyway.
The other man sighed, and Danny opened his mouth to continue, only to be interrupted.
"Victor's dead."
And wow.
What?
"What?"
Things were falling quickly into place, and Danny cursed them all for not doing something about it. It wasn't like they could fix anything, but Martin was one of theirs and around here, they took care of their own.
"Last night," Jack said, as if answering Danny's question. Danny had a feeling they were having two totally separate conversations; Danny's mind was still on Martin. "Myocardial infraction."
Danny shook his head at Jack. Didn't it just figure that Victor Fitzgerald would die of something as common as a heart attack? He felt rather a horrible person for thinking that.
"He needs time, Danny," Jack informed him sternly, and Danny knew that Jack was right. It didn't stop him from arguing.
"He needs a friend," he countered, realising that Martin didn't really have anyone. His sister lived in Chicago, so she probably wasn't even in the city yet, and Martin's mother was probably on the other side of the world. Danny didn't imagine she'd be particularly comforting even if she were in New York.
It occurred to Danny just how hard a lot of this must be. Besides being effectively alone, Martin didn't express himself. He bottled his emotions up; didn't speak of them. But nor did he ever do anything. He never lashed out, never hit something, hugged someone, screamed. It scared Danny.
Not to mention his relatioship with his father; life had to be pretty damn confusing for Martin right now.
He watched as Jack blinked a few times, bit his bottom lip for just a second, then looked again at Danny, looking exhausted, and Danny wouldn't be surprised if Jack had been up since last night. At this, he deflated a little, letting his shoulders droop.
"We don't have a case," Danny reminded Jack, who still seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. He wondered, not for the first time, why Jack was so good at reading between the lines, but discarded the thought, simply glad that he was.
"Leave your phone on," Jack said in response, nodding, and Danny wanted nothing more than to hug him in that moment. Instead, he grinned, breathing a thank you, before all but running out of Jack's office.
He still had no idea what he wanted to say to Martin.
There was nothing left for Martin to do. His sister wasn't even in the city yet and his mother would take her time, probably making sure to avoid Martin and his sister for a few days. He didn't blame her, really. He didn't want to see them. Didn't want to see them because they'd talk to him – at least his sister would – make him play the caring son, when all he really wanted to do was be alone.
Actually, for the first time in Martin's life, he found himself wanting to cry.
Crying was a sign of weakness, though, and he wondered if this urge was because his father was no longer here to tell him that, or because he was sure that if he could shed just one tear, it would make him human.
He was still numb. Could see his apartment clearly, could feel every thread of the couch cushions under his fingertips, but couldn't summon any of the appropriate emotions. He felt mildly angry at himself over his reaction to his father's death, but no more than that.
He couldn't even be angry at the doctors like a normal family member.
He had stepped out onto the street after meeting with Jack, and had run into at least four people on the way home. He hadn't wanted to catch a cab, or the subway; hadn't wanted to talk to people, to be shoved in a carriage with other bodies pressing against his own.
Martin wanted, now, to just crawl into bed, ignore the world, ignore himself, but he couldn't will himself to move – the comfort of bed seemingly not as attractive as sitting on his couch and staring blankly at the wall.
He felt something like he did at the end of a very long, very bad case. Like he was rooted to the spot, the gravity of the earth's core tugging him towards it; yet light, as if he weren't really there, as if he were hovering just above himself. Basically, he felt exhausted.
Couldn't summon the strength to be disgusted at how clichéd that thought was.
The difference between a bad case and this, though, was that at the end of a bad case, Martin was angry. He was furious, miserable, frustrated.
Emotional.
Perhaps the closest he'd felt to emotion all day had been ill. His stomach twisted almost periodically, like it was punishing him for not breaking down like he probably should have. Like it was trying to make him uncomfortable. His head hurt, his throat ached from the pressure, his back felt like hell, his legs refused to carry him more than necessary. He'd almost collapsed on the walk home.
His body wasn't his own, and before he realised what he was doing, he moved into the kitchen, feeling his head reel as he did so. The weightless drag was pulling him downward again, and mentally, he wanted to let himself fall to the floor. But his body seemed to have other ideas as it reached for a glass.
It occurred to him that he was incredibly thirsty. He hadn't drunk anything since yesterday afternoon, and that had been coffee. Dehydrating, his mind clarified uselessly. By the time the next coherent through hit him, he was back on his couch, sitting in exactly the same position as before.
As if he hadn't moved. As if the glass had just appeared in his hand out of thin air.
And as far as he could comprehend, it had.
Danny knocked a third time, wishing that Martin would open his door. He knew that he was home, had heard some sort of movement from within the apparently dark apartment.
"Martin, it's me," he called, knowing it was pointless. "Open up, man."
When no reply came, Danny leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes tightly. As he did, an image of Martin flashed through his mind. A broken Martin, sitting on his bathroom floor, pale, barely breathing, shaking hands rattling a bottle of pills.
And despite the fact that he knew it was only his mind, knew that Martin wasn't sitting on his bathroom floor, the image was enough for Danny to reach for the doorknob.
He wasn't too surprised to find it unlocked. If Martin could dress like he had this morning, he wasn't going to remember to lock his door.
He was right; the apartment was dark, and it took a few seconds for Danny's eyes to adjust. A square of light from the hallway lit the opposite wall, a frame for the figure sitting in the middle of the couch between the wall and the door. Danny stood still as he saw Martin stiffen – was almost relieved that he did, because it was a reaction – and turn his head.
Martin's eyes glinted in the light, though Danny couldn't tell whether from tears, or recognition, or the glassiness of earlier.
"Martin," he said softly, wondering whether Martin actually recognised him. Danny's confirmation came from Martin turning back around to face the wall, more deliberately than before. Wasn't sure whether it was an invitation or a dismissal. Didn't bother trying to figure it out as he closed the door behind him and crossed the room, turning on only a dim lamp in the far corner.
He didn't want stark light, and had a feeling that Martin's decision to leave them off had been more conscious than forgetful. He moved around the couch slowly and sat on the coffee table directly in front of Martin. There were at least four empty glasses on the table, and Danny couldn't help but pick one up, smelling it. Nothing alcoholic and Danny almost sighed with relief. No evidence of any pills, either, and Danny lowered his head to meet Martin's eyes.
They were much more aware than before.
"Can you hear me, Martin?" he asked, a little surprised when Martin spoke.
"I didn't take any pills." And that was all he said. Danny felt immediately guilty, knowing that Martin thought that was why he was here. Thought that that was the only plausible reason for Danny to be here.
"I know, Martin," he lied. He didn't think that he could tell the difference, anyway. Danny reached out and very slowly put a hand around Martin's wrist. It was freezing.
Suddenly, the glasses took on a whole new meaning, but before he could say anything, Martin's mouth was pressed against his. Hard, almost painfully so, but Danny's logic vanished for a few seconds.
He knew he should stop Martin, that this wasn't helping anything, would only make things worse, but he couldn't control his automatic response. Which was to kiss Martin back with as much force.
Danny moaned in spite of himself.
But the sound broke the haze that had settled over his consciousness and he grabbed Martin's wrist, pulling out of his grip.
"Fitz," he said softly, trying to ignore his reaction to Martin. But Martin's expression was one of angry determination and he yanked his hand out of Danny's grip and grabbed the back of his neck instead, pulling him forward to meet his mouth again.
It took Martin's hand on his belt this time to pull him back to sanity. He grabbed Martin's wrist again, pulling it away from himself and knocking over a glass in the process, reminding him of his earlier revelation.
Martin's eyes registered a little surprise as Danny's other hand found his forehead. His pulse was quicker than it should be, his forehead hotter that it should be, even after what they just done. "Martin, you're in shock."
Martin looked confused for a second, before looking at the glass, lying on its side on the coffee table next to Danny. He stayed silent, though.
"You need to go to the hospital," Danny informed him, but immediately regretted it when Martin's eyes flashed with something like horror. He couldn't believe he had just suggested that. Martin hated hospitals enough already, but he'd probably spent the whole night in one. Martin shook his head unevenly, looking close to hysteria.
Part of Danny was glad for the reaction. At least it was something.
He didn't quite understand what had just happened; couldn't be bothered figuring it out because Danny was trying to take him to the hospital. Danny. Who was here. And Martin had been beyond shocked when Danny's hand had found his wrist the first time. He had told Danny about the pills, like he had wanted to do earlier, and Danny had believed him. Believed in him enough to immediately accept that he was telling the truth.
And what he did next, he could now only put down to the basest of human emotion – instinct, really. He had needed contact, needed to feel something other than numb, to force himself into at least an illusion of conscience.
But once Danny had kissed him back, he had just sort of snapped. Everything that had happened in the past few hours just hit. Hit, and he wanted the numbness back, because it hurt. Ironic, because this was what he had wanted; confirmation that he could feel, that he was capable of basic human emotion.
He just couldn't believe that he had missed this, craved it.
Still, though, he couldn't decide what was worse: the pain, or the return of his senses. As soon as the pain hit, so had the taste of Danny, the smell of him, which wasn't bad, because it blocked out the pain a little. Danny, tasting and smelling so good, Danny kissing him back, Danny's body warm and wanting and alive and there.
But the noise. The noise burst, like Mute had been turned off with the speakers on full volume. He heard more than he was sure he ever had. The sirens outside, the mid-morning crowd, horns beeping, neighbours yelling, banging, laughing. And the stillness in the room seemed so stark in comparison.
Danny was just staring at him, now, and Martin had a feeling he was trying to figure out what to do next. Martin wanted to help him; wanted to tell him what to do, but he honestly didn't know. His head hurt from the noise, his temples throbbing, and he squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach knotted.
This time it was punishing him for feeling.
Martin shifted uncomfortably on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. It seeped through his pyjama bottoms, chilling his hip and thigh to an uncomfortable temperature. The feeling was only made worse by the fever he knew he was developing.
He sat up onto his knees before letting himself fall to the other side, letting his other leg freeze for a few minutes as his stomach protested the movement.
He actually wanted to throw up. Knew that if he didn't, he'd feel ill for at least a few days, so he concentrated all his energy on his writhing stomach. Usually, just sitting here – on the floor, in front of the toilet – was enough to make him throw up. But tonight his body seemed to be conspiring against him.
Martin's body had never really agreed with him. He told himself to like girls, he wanted to kiss boys; he told himself to kick the ball, he missed it; he told himself to throw up, he just felt sick. Really, his body wanted to make a failure out of him.
He knew it was worrisome that at twelve years of age, he knew the meaning of the word masochism.
He heard footsteps in the hall and tensed, forcing himself to his knees and wincing when his stomach did another back flip. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to lock the door.
He looked up to see his father staring at him strangely, seemingly confused as to why his son was sitting on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night.
"Morning, Dad," he joked, though Victor didn't seem at all amused. Actually, he seemed a little annoyed, which irritated Martin because he was sick. Legitimately ill, not even getting sick.
"What are you doing?" he asked. And he really hadn't realised. Some detective. And how could he respond to that? Trying to make myself throw up? Thinking how much easier life would be if I were competent? Paying homage to the genius of the toilet bowl?
Not so surprisingly, the latter probably would have been the best answer. He settled for, "Feel sick."
Which apparently was the not only the least favourable answer, but the wrong answer, because Victor actually scoffed.
"You were fine earlier," he protested and Martin physically forced his eyebrows to stay in place. Victor was, without a doubt, the least observant federal detective of all time. Martin had been feeling like hell all day, had eaten a grand total of nothing since breakfast, and had gone to bed at seven in the evening. Sweating. In the dead of winter.
Useless.
Martin refrained from telling Victor all of this, if only to get him to go away, but he just sighed.
"Must have been something I ate," he lied, knowing damn well that his father knew that he was lying. Besides not having eaten anything all day, Victor and he had had the same thing for dinner. Family bonding, or something, Martin suspected.
Worked wonders for the home life.
Martin knew he was too cynical for his age.
"Do you need to be sick?" Victor asked, sounding more impatient than anything. Martin debated whether or not to say yes, before finally shaking his head. Though Victor had never hit Martin, hardly even yelled at him – too busy ignoring him – he was an incredibly intimidating man.
Maybe that was what the FBI kept him for: being the strong, silent, intimidating one.
"No."
"Then get off the floor, Martin," his father said, impatience growing. "You look pathetic, sitting there like that."
Martin almost winced at the insult. He felt pretty pathetic, too, but didn't bother telling his father that. Like most of his thoughts, telling Victor tended to prove counterproductive.
"Sorry, Dad," he said unapologetically, forcing himself to his feet.
Victor stepped aside to let him pass, and Martin flinched as he heard the lock click.
Danny stood outside the bathroom door, wondering what to do. He could hear Martin inside, breathing still shallow, and Danny worried that if he didn't do something fast, Martin would pass out. And then he'd have to take him to the hospital.
Danny knew that reality had just hit; Martin's emotions had finally caught up with him. He had seen it play across Martin's face: the pain, the confusion, tangling into something else entirely, and when Martin had bolted, Danny didn't need to ask.
Didn't need to ask because he'd done the same thing, once, a long time ago. And he'd hated that there had been someone around to see it. He'd been poked and prodded all day, stitched, undressed, bandaged – all the while being cooed over by pitying nurses. And he'd been fine until one of them had called him querido.
His mother had called him that when he was younger. He had run to the bathroom across the hall, barely making it before he threw up, and the next thing he knew, there were three nurses in the room, one stroking his hair, talking to him in broken, anglicised Spanish. As if he weren't humiliated enough, already.
Danny shook off the memory as he heard the toilet flush, then running water. He knocked softly on the door, waiting until he heard what he assumed was agreement before going in. When he got into the bathroom, he realised that it hadn't even been a conscious noise.
Martin faced away from him; hands braced on the bench, knuckles white and shoulders shaking from both tension and sobs. Danny closed his eyes for a few seconds before calling Martin's name softly. Martin's hands loosened their grip on the bench before tightening again.
Danny took a few steps forward and placed both his hands on Martin's shoulders, beyond shocked when Martin spun, thinking for a second that he was going to hit him. It wouldn't be surprising, really; all that anger had to go somewhere, and Danny knew he'd forgive Martin for it instantly.
When he didn't hit him, he wondered if Martin would kiss him again – kicked himself mentally when he hoped Martin would.
Instead, Martin seemed to combine the two, and all but threw himself at Danny, wrapping his arms around his back, winding him. For a few seconds, he was too shocked to move; he could feel Martin's body shivering against his own, shaking with sobs, and it took a few seconds to respond. Finally regaining control, Danny hugged Martin back, not bothering to stop the soft, somewhat nonsensical Spanish he muttered into Martin's ear.
After a few minutes, he realised that not all the shivering was from the tears.
He forced himself to pull back, really wanting nothing more than to stay like this and let Martin cry, but he knew he had to take care of him. Martin's skin was still cold, his breathing even more erratic because of the sobbing, and Danny could feel him weakening.
He extricated himself carefully, not wanting Martin to think that he was leaving, and placed his hands either side of his head, holding him in place. Martin's eyes flashed with worry for a second before he took what might be considered a deep breath and swallowed another sob. He held Danny's gaze.
"Martin," he started, realising suddenly how many times today he'd said Martin's name. "You're in shock. I don't want to take you to the hospital, and I know you don't want to go, so you have to do what I tell you, okay?"
He knew he was talking to Martin like he was a child, but it was hard not to when he looked so damn broken.
To his surprise, Martin nodded, though Danny had a feeling that it was more out of sheer exhaustion than agreement.
"Yeah," Martin whispered and Danny actually managed a smile. He nodded back.
Martin followed him wordlessly into his bedroom, not saying anything until Danny pushed him onto the bed and started to take Martin's shoes off.
"He's dead, Danny," he said, so emotionless that it made Danny wince. He looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, not really surprised to find Martin staring at him. But he looked almost calm, like he'd processed everything subconsciously already, and the breakdown in the bathroom was just a conclusion of events.
And that might actually be true, at least for today.
Martin nodded once, then looked away, as if Danny's gaze had just confirmed something.
He finished taking Martin's shoes off, then moved to his belt, taking surprised note of the fact that Martin had already taken off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in his suit pants and undershirt. Danny took a few pillows from one end of the bed and placed them on the other, pulling the blankets back and motioning for Martin to lie down, not bothering to explain to him what he was doing.
Martin did as he was told, arranging himself with his feet on the pillows. Danny pulled the blankets over Martin before climbing onto the bed, forcefully reminding his body to shut up. He sat against the headboard, legs curled to his side.
He smiled when Martin shifted a little closer, head resting against Danny's thigh, breath hot on his knee even through his pants, and Danny gave his body another stern warning. Sighing with relief when it worked, he absently threaded a hand through Martin's hair.
The other man stiffened under the touch for just a second before relaxing.
He knew he shouldn't let Martin sleep – too much chance of him passing out without Danny knowing – but the colour slowly returned to Martin's cheeks, and his breathing evened out before slowing to a steady rhythm.
Martin would inevitably dream in memories tonight, and Danny found himself wondering how many of those were happy ones.
He didn't move as he heard the voices outside his bedroom door. It was weird to have noises in the house at night. Usually, Martin brushed his teeth and put on his pyjamas at eight-fifteen. By eight-thirty, he was in bed.
Because he was a little boy – though he didn't think that six was little – and little boys weren't allowed to stay up late like grown-ups were.
He didn't understand it, but that didn't mean he didn't know.
That's why he smiled when he heard his Aunt Bonnie's voice: she always let him stay up later than his parents did. But Martin hadn't been to Aunt Bonnie's in a few months, because she had a new baby, now, and said that she was so noisy that Martin wouldn't be able to sleep.
He didn't think that was true. He always slept better at Bonnie's.
He finished buttoning his pyjama shirt and checked the clock – it was eight-twenty-three. His dad would come in – he counted on his hands – seven minutes to make sure he was in bed. He climbed into bed, grabbing his teddy on the way, and pulled his covers up around him.
He didn't like his covers. They were boring and plain. And yellow. Martin didn't like yellow. He liked blue, and green, and his blankets at Bonnie's were always blue and green.
He heard more loud whispers from Bonnie and then his dad's voice started talking, louder than Bonnie's.
"I just don't know what to do with him," was what he was saying, and he sounded a little bit mad. Like he had when Martin had told him he had played Mums and Dads with Aaron at school. Martin didn't see what the problem was, really. He was always the dad, so it wasn't even like he pretended to be a girl, which his dad had told him not to do.
"You love him, is what you do, Victor," Bonnie said. Martin wondered who they were talking about.
"Don't tell me I don't love him," his dad said back, his voice getting a little bit louder. Martin thought that maybe they were talking about Martin's dog, Rufus. His dad didn't like Rufus because he ate shoes.
"I'm not saying you don't," Bonnie said, her voice still quiet. "But you need to show him that, or he's going to grow up resenting you."
Martin held his breath as he heard footsteps trail down the hallway away from his room, closing his eyes when he saw the door open. He kept them shut as he heard his dad clear his throat.
"Martin, are you still awake?"
Martin didn't know why, but he didn't want to answer. Even though he didn't have to be asleep by eight-thirty, his dad sometimes said that he should be because men went to sleep straight away, which was silly, because Martin knew that grown-ups went to bed late.
He felt the side of his bed fall down, and opened one eye just a little bit to have a peek. He saw his dad's grey work pants and shut his eye again as he felt his dad lean against the back of the bed and put his hand on Martin's shoulder, his legs almost as long as the bed when he stretched them out all the way.
His dad had never done that before. He usually just came in and looked and then said goodnight. But he liked having his dad with him. He liked it a lot.
And like that, with his father sitting next to him, Martin started to fall asleep, wondering what the word 'resenting' meant.
Hope you enjoyed it! And now, it's two in the morning (though it's really three, because daylight savings only ended like an hour ago), so I'm going to go to bed and get warm.
Like a normal person.
Reviews are loved more than most everything!
-Giorgia