Spoilers: It's the middle of summer, and I'm cold. Uh, sopilers for... well, if you don't know Martin and Sam dated, then that could be an issue.
Disclaimer: No, Without a Trace is actually mine.
Author's Note: Set while Martin and Sam are dating. (Gag).
Martin groaned as Danny hooked a balled piece of paper at the rubbish bin at the side of Martin's desk and missed. Again. There was a steadily growing pile of scrunched up paper – probably important documents, knowing Danny – at his feet. The next piece hit the back of Martin's head, and he spun, glaring at his partner across the near-empty bullpen, wishing that the lunch hour would just end, already.
"You're annoying when you're tired, you know that?" he snapped, impatient. To his horror – but not quite surprise – Danny smirked.
"Is Sam annoying when you're tired?" he asked. Martin didn't miss the pronoun change. And now he really was annoyed. Annoyed and confused because there were a hell of a lot of ways that Martin could take Danny's question. None of them were particularly inviting.
And was that jealousy he heard in Danny's voice? He quelled the thought even before it solidified. Still, there was a hint of bitterness that Martin couldn't deny, even through the lathered-on teasing.
Mostly to avoid answering the question, Martin glared, then rolled his eyes, keeping his expression deliberately unamused. Huffing, he moved back to his file, studying it with unnecessary intensity. Unfortunately, Danny seemed to notice this, because he heard a low chuckle – 'heard' it in all the wrong places – behind him.
And that was beyond annoying. Danny's dig about Samantha had been an unkind one at best.
Martin had been instantly drawn to Samantha when he'd joined Missing Person's. Not because he was really attracted to her – though she was pretty enough, she was rather lacking in the personality department – but because he needed someone. Someone as close to his parent's expectations as possible. Someone safe.
Someone who was not, and nothing like, Danny.
Samantha was the methadone to Danny's heroin.
He knew that Samantha's heart wasn't truly in the relationship, either. Which, if he was honest, was quite a relief. He didn't want to hurt her – he wasn't attracted to her, but he did like her – and knowing that he wasn't using her made him feel a lot better about it. Okay, so he was using her; but really, they were using each other.
Martin knew that their breakup was inevitable; only a matter of who felt the most guilty about their relationship. Perhaps, he thought, in another situation, they'd have been perfect for each other. One in which his parents were even bigger influences; one in which they weren't colleagues; one without Jack.
One without Danny.
Groaning inwardly, Martin looked – again – to the file on his desk.
"Fitz?"
His head snapped up at the sound of his nickname, the single syllable infused with concern and curiosity. Great, just what he needed: a guilt-trip from Danny. That was even more insufferable than his teasing.
But apparently Martin wasn't as good at hiding his feelings as he had thought. At least, not from Danny, who had suddenly appeared at his desk, leaning against it casually.
Just as Martin was about to tell him off for being such a pain in the ass, Vivian and Samantha walked through the doors of the bullpen, both clutching coffee cups aplenty. As they headed to Martin's desk, he smiled at Samantha, happy to see her despite everything. She smiled back – a little more affectionately than he had – and passed him a coffee.
He didn't miss the guilty glance she sent to Jack's office, either. He wondered if she had seen him glance at Danny the same way.
Vivian and Danny were making small-talk as Samantha grabbed Martin's hand subtly and squeezed it once before heading back to her desk. Vivian followed suit.
When he turned back to Danny, expecting him to leave as well, his eyes were all but sparkling. His conversation with Vivian had obviously been amusing.
Then the amusement was clouded with concern again, and Martin wished it wouldn't be. Danny raised his eyebrows expectantly. "So? What's wrong, Martin?" he asked. It seemed Martin was not getting out of this one.
Shrugging, Martin smiled a little; the right combination of apology, tiredness and resignation for the excuse he was about to use.
"Case," was all he said, almost wincing at the deliberate, overly-pathetic tone. He knew that his small smile said the rest. To everyone but, it seemed, Danny. Who didn't look in the least convinced, despite his words.
"Yeah, kind of crappy, huh?" he agreed, and Martin was let off the hook. "But what's really wrong?"
Or not.
Martin felt himself redden, embarrassed at having been caught out. He opened his mouth to argue, but when his eyes met Danny's – wide, brown, concerned – he stopped before he even began. He steeled his face and held Danny's eyes.
Danny raised his eyebrows again as if to say don't even bother; I'll win and you know it.
Martin simply continued to stare, partly in challenge and partly because he was physically incapable of looking away with those eyes challenging him. He'd lost before this conversation had even started.
Martin again felt the damned and damning blush creep into his cheeks. Saw Danny's eyes follow it up his neck and cheeks until his eyes again met Martin's. Martin could feel himself losing this silent argument, and hated the idea that he, a Fitzgerald, would give in because Danny was looking at him.
Sullenly, he wondered if there was a simple way out of this one; a way to surrender without losing. As far as a Fitzgerald was concerned, there wasn't, but as far as Martin was concerned, there was a possibility. He glanced pointedly around the office, at the conference table, and finally, very deliberately, as Samantha.
"Not now, Danny," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Apparently Danny didn't get it, though, because he opened his mouth, his expression sulking. "Not now, Danny," he repeated, a little more firmly, looking again at Samantha.
Danny looked momentarily mutinous before sighing and giving Martin a look that said I won't forget this and wandering back to his own desk. Martin fought the urge to roll his eyes over Danny obvious way of ignoring his words. Danny was better at reading people than anyone Martin had ever known, and he was adept at reading Martin as Martin was at reading a novel. He hadn't missed anything in Martin's tone, or in his demeanour.
He'd just wanted to screw with him a little. Well, a lot, really, because he knew that Samantha was not a discussion topic. First he'd been able to use the smile-slyly-I-don't-kiss-and-tell routine, but then Danny had started asking all the wrong – or right, depending on how he looked at it – questions, and the whole defence had just gone poof. Forcing his eyes back to the file in front of him, Martin began the tedium that was paperwork.
He was almost glad for the mindless task.
Involuntarily, Martin's eyes strayed to Danny. He wondered, with a certain amount of dread, whether he would let their previous conversation go. If he could have called it a conversation. Danny swivelled in his chair, turning towards Martin, and he averted his eyes. Why did Danny always know? Danny was currently laughing at something he'd said to Samantha, who was hiding her near-giggles almost expertly. A familiar smirk lit her face.
Martin felt something like affection as he watched her laugh - a feeling not unlike what he felt for his sister - but it was Danny's laugh that really got his attention. Danny was laughing now, honestly, openly. He wasn't making fun of someone; not smirking, winking, flirting like he usually did. It wasn't something that any of them allowed themselves to do very often, but it was almost odd for Danny, because he was the lively one.
He had an almost permanent smile fixed on his face, while the others let a smile creep out only when it was appropriate. But when truly happy, it was a very different matter. Martin very much liked Danny when he was like this.
His eyes drifted back to Samantha and Danny, who were again laughing, but talking in what appeared to be hushed tones. Both were looking at Martin.
And oh, God, what had Danny told her? This couldn't be good. Martin felt his face turn what he suspected was a brilliant shade of red and looked back at his files, plotting ways to get back at Danny for whatever it was he had said. The image of Jack finding a lot of porn in Danny's desk was interrupted by a tap to his shoulder.
And of course it would be Danny. Looking very attractive and ready to leave. It hadn't even occurred to Martin that it was nearly time to go, so he glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. It was past time to go.
"Wanna go get a drink?" Danny offered. Martin stared at him. Partially because he still hadn't quite caught up, partially because Danny was offering to go get a drink, but mostly because Samantha hadn't told him when she'd left. Not that he was particularly disappointed; but he really wouldn't have minded some... company.
He supposed Danny counted as 'company', at least in the literal sense. But martin was thinking of something a little – lot – friendlier than 'drinks'. Involving copious amounts of nudity and not heart-to-hearts about his relationship. And wasn't that just incredibly ironic?
He looked up when he realised that Danny was staring at him expectantly. Deciding that thinking about things was not getting him anywhere, he sighed, tossed a few things into his backpack and breathed a resigned yeah. Danny's grin was definitely worth it.
When Martin had agreed to go with Danny, this was not what he had been expecting. The room was darker than most restaurants – 'mood-lighting' included – and had nowhere near enough windows to qualify as a cafe. Not that windows would have done much; Martin was pretty sure they were underground.
As far as atmosphere went, Martin was sure this place qualified as having some. It was almost a bar, only friendlier, less dingy, and without the lingering smell of cigarettes everywhere. It was pretty clear that Danny came here a fair bit, which was funny, because Martin had never even heard of the place. He figured that was probably why Danny came here.
There were bars in every big city around the country specifically for law enforcement officers; District Attorneys, cops, feds. They were kind of like safe-havens for those of badged-status. Martin hated those places. Trading war-stories, downing bad whiskey with a veteran cop, arguing futilely with a lawyer. Hell, half the conversations revolved around how lacking the pay was.
But this place was... normal. Only more interesting.
Danny seemed to notice Martin's musing, because he saw him smirk out of the corner of his eye.
"Used to be a bar, during Prohibition," he explained. "Turned into a swingin' night club in the late forties, then a gay bar in the sixties," he continued. Martin was shocked. How the hell had Danny found this place, and what on earth was it now?
"'Underground' isn't just a literal term, then," Martin offered with a smile. Danny grinned at him.
"Nope, this place's managed to stay under the radar for a good ninety years," he agreed with a glint in his eyes that Martin preferred not to consider. He had to know.
"So, uh, what is it now?" he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. He was suddenly glad for the lack of light; he could feel his cheeks burning. Danny seemed to know anyway, and just grinned at him again, taking a sip of his soda.
"You gonna tell me what's up?" he asked suddenly. Martin was confused. As intelligent as he was, quick topic changes were rather difficult when he had Danny to distract him.
"What?" was all he managed. Clever, he told himself.
"Earlier, you said 'not now'. So I've decided that it is no longer 'now', and that you are going to tell me," he said simply. And that was very confusing. It wasn't now?
"Really, Danny, drop it," Martin said a little too defensively. Danny's brows rose. "There's nothing wrong," he tried again, knowing it was pointless.
"What, do I have to spike your soda? Why are you drinking soda, anyway?" Danny asked, and Martin was relieved by the change of topic. At least it was one he could follow this time. Still, Martin's body managed to hate him enough to blush as he answered the question.
"I'm not drinking alcohol with you around," he said, somewhere between incredulous and sulky. Danny laughed at him, not surprisingly.
"It's okay if you want to drink, Martin. I can handle it." And now Martin had the distinct impression he was being made fun of.
"You just want me to drink so you can pull answers out of me." And wasn't that the most intelligent thing he'd ever said? Remind the crazy, insatiable interrogator why they were here. He mentally kicked himself.
Danny was still laughing, his eyes shining in the dark.
"Well, maybe," he admitted. For a minute, Martin thought Danny hadn't taken his remark on board, and then he started talking again. "It's Sam, isn't it?" he asked unceremoniously.
Martin's grip on his glass tightened a little, and looked away from Danny, staring at the few other people in the surprisingly large room. "I don't want to talk about it." With you, he added mentally.
Uh oh. This was not good. Once Martin had begun saying half of what he wanted to, he tended to forget which half.
"Yeah, I got that," Danny agreed, still sounding too amused. "But if something's bothering you, Martin, I don't want it to eat you up," he said, amusement turning into concern.
Martin decided that he had three options: one, he could ignore Danny; two, he could argue with Danny; or three, he could just give in. Lying to Danny was never an option. It was as pointless as it was difficult. His problem, now, though, was that the first two left him with an angry Danny, and the third left him with a potentially-angry Danny or an inevitably harsh let-down.
"I... Danny..." Martin stopped, took a deep breath, and decided to just answer Danny's questions as indirectly and quickly as possible. "Yeah, it's Sam."
Surprisingly, neither Danny's voice nor his expression showed victory; only that concern that would probably be his undoing.
"You're not in love with her, are you?" he asked, though Martin was sure he knew the answer. How had Danny become so damned intuitive? It really wasn't fair.
"I love her," he said honestly. And he did. He just wasn't in love with her. And when did he become such a girl?
"Yeah, but you love your basketball," Danny countered. Martin had a feeling this was going in the wrong direction, but that was an annoying question; made all the more aggravating because Danny was smirking again.
"She means more to me than that, Danny, and you know it," he said, a lot more firmly than he had intended. Danny's smirk turned into a real smile, and he chuckled a little.
"Yeah, I know, man," he sighed. They were quiet for a few minuted, and Martin suspected that Danny was waiting for him to cool down a little. Neither wanted an argument. Though, it was sometimes hard to tell with Danny. "Are you in love with her?" he asked, and this time, it was actually a question.
Martin physically cringed at that. "She's still in love with Jack," he said, trying to dodge the question. But it hit him, saying that out loud. There was an odd mixture of regret and resignation that he felt as he admitted that. Danny nodded, as if he suspected as much, and placed a hand on Martin's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, man; that's gotta be tough," he said sympathetically, giving Martin's shoulder a squeeze.
"Actually," Martin began before he could stop himself, "It's easier than you'd imagine." Martin relished in the fact that Danny actually seemed shocked by that. It wasn't very often that Danny was disconcerted, and Martin was rather proud to be the cause of it.
"Huh," he grunted. "But you're still avoiding the question," he pointed out, removing his hand from Martin's shoulder. Martin mourned the loss of contact, but figured he may as well answer. Danny was looking for confirmation, not raw material.
"No. I'm not in love with her," he said, kind of wishing he had taken Danny up on the offer of alcohol.
"Why not?"
Now that was the kind of question he'd been dreading. Because, Danny, I'm in love with you. That'd go down well. Why not, indeed.
"I... I don't know," he lied. And Danny was still looking for an answer. "She... she's great. I mean, she's sweet, she's pretty, she's –"
"Everything your parents would love," Danny interrupted. Martin stared at him, wondering – again – how he could be so perceptive. Martin couldn't hold back the bitter chuckle.
"Yeah, that she is. Though I don't suppose my father would approve of me having another thing to tie me to the FBI," he said more to himself than to Danny. He was sure that if he aimed all his comments at Danny right now, they'd probably just stop. He didn't want to admit these things to himself, let alone someone else. Someone else who was Danny. "Literally being married to my job..."
Danny actually laughed at that, and Martin had to feel a little proud because of it.
"But really, Danny... it isn't like there's anything wrong with her; or with our relationship –"
"Besides you not being in love with her and her being in love with our boss."
"- but it was never going to work," Martin concluded. Ah, truth was fun. Danny smiled almost sympathetically, then his familiar smirk returned. Martin looked at him with slight dread.
"I get it," he said, picking up his drink. "But surely there's a reason you're not even bothering to pretend you're in love with her."
Martin was shocked. "That's sick!" he said, half-laughing at Danny's bluntness. Danny grinned back, acknowledging the joke. Martin's tone became subdued. "I don't want to hurt her, Danny." Such a simple statement for such a complicated emotion. "She's just... she's not really my type," he said, sure that the statement would be taken as one of those weird manly things that Martin had never really understood.
"Not your type, Fitz?" Danny asked incredulously. "That's a pretty lousy excuse," he chastised. Martin cursed inwardly. "Unless –" Martin's interest peaked again, "- the type you're talking about it a lot broader than just dark and leggy."
I wouldn't say that. "Um." Genius. This was going nowhere. Not even in a circle. It was a freaking horizontal line of confusion, frustration and he felt Danny's hand on his arm. And that right there was a right angle.
"So what is your type, Martin?" he asked. Yep, the line was now vertical.
"No way, you first. You never answered my question," Martin told him, feeling a little bolder, but still wanting to change the subject. The repetition of his own words caused for Danny to raise an eyebrow.
"What question?" he asked. Martin forced his voice to be calm, despite the weird nervousness he was feeling.
"What is this place now?" he asked, shocked when Danny leaned closer than could ever be considered professional. He smirked; Martin's pulse quickened. Amazingly, he managed to blush, despite the considerable amount of blood draining away from his head.
"You know, I thought you would have figured that out by now," he told him, sweet breath mixing with his own, and Martin was suddenly exceptionally glad he'd stuck with soda. He swallowed, licking his lips for nervousness. Danny seemed to take that as some kind of invitation, though, and leaned closer, lips grazing Martin's for only a second before kissing him.
Hard.
Martin was glad that he was already sitting down. Samantha had never felt this good.
When Danny pulled away, it took Martin a few seconds to realize what they had done. And a few more to remember why he was still clothed. Danny seemed to read his thoughts – as always – and smirked at him. Suddenly, Danny's smirk held much, much more than teasing and innuendo. The man was pure allure, his eyes fascinatingly dark, and Martin suddenly worried about Samantha.
Odd timing, but not a particularly irrelevant concern. Danny smiled. "I told her you were mine tonight," Danny told him, the innocence of the statement totally gone to hell.
"But what..." Martin was finding it hard to breathe, let alone think. Danny's hands had made their way to all the wrong places, and if that hadn't stopped him, the look on Danny's face would have. "You... you're... what?" he asked finally, utterly confused.
"Haven't you had enough of talking tonight, Fitz?" he asked – sounding just a little more desperate than he had ever thought Danny capable of – kissing Martin's throat with surprising vigour.
And yes, Martin had definitely had enough talking.
Tell me what you think! I'm not sure about the end (I'm never sure about the end...).
Giorgia