So. Anyone who's still following Bullies, this is a story for you. You don't really have to read the other one, but if you don't, you might think this is a very strange plot.
This is not a new story. This is me updating Bullies. And being lazy about it.
Danny tiredly made his way home. To sleep. There was no other reason, really. He might as well sell his apartment and just rent a hotel room when he'd been up too long.
He'd racked up hours and hours in overtime pay, too. Mac was probably going to talk to him about that at one point. There had been enough lingering, condescending looks from Mac for Danny to start avoiding him in the halls.
As he shuffled out of the subway station, up into the dark city night, he realized that there were few people he hadn't been avoiding lately. He paused briefly on the sidewalk, trying to count the number of actual conversations he'd had lately, conversations with someone who wasn't a nurse, or someone who was actually listening. He could count exactly two in the past three weeks. One with Stella about whether or not she should get regular or decaf coffee, and one with Hawkes about running shoes vs. converse.
There had been a time when Danny had considered himself an interesting person to talk to. Always injecting his opinion into the conversation, wanted or not. Joking around behind turned backs, loud exclamations at various sports wins or losses. He'd been fun once. Exciting.
Now he was a zombie.
As he shoved open the door to his apartment, averting his gaze from the cheerful pictures on the walls, he stumbled vacantly towards his couch and collapsed.
His eyes closed automatically, and he sank into a dreamless sleep instantly.
Flack whistled cheerfully as he jauntily stepped down the hallway of the crime lab, towards the office near the end of the hall.
"Heeey, Danno, got a good one here," he called out, turning into the empty office with two cluttered desks mashed up against each other, "Man kills himself with a …" Flack looked up, and finally noted the empty room.
He breathed out harshly and turned, tucking the file back under his arm.
"He hasn't been in there in weeks," Hawkes said.
Flack turned to see the young CSI leaning against the wall of the office.
"Avoiding that place, too?" Flack grunted, severely disappointed. He'd been planning on asking Danny out for a beer after work as well. "You know he doesn't sleep in the bed anymore? Says it smells like her and he can't sleep."
Sheldon's eyebrows raised, although he wasn't entirely surprised. "I think after a while he'll just stop going to his apartment."
Flack shook his head and frowned. "It ain't right. He should be … he should …" but Don couldn't come up with anything to suggest. It wasn't as though the situation was common.
Hawkes nodded in agreement to the hanging sentence, as if he was equally confused. He sighed and took the file from under Flack's arm, and flipped it open. "What've we got?"
Danny woke with an intake of breath.
He hated that brief moment in morning where he'd forget to mourn. Or, for that matter, to be hopeful. That brief second in time where time was just the second he lived in, and there was no future or past, just waking up.
And then he would turn, and see that he was still lying on a couch in the middle of a pile of unwashed, crumpled blankets, and he would feel like crying.
He swallowed the emotions, stood, and walked to his bedroom. He glared at the punching bag that hung from a corner and contemplated where to throw the first punch. The top? No. The gut? No. A little lower.
He took a deep breath, fisted his hand, and rammed it hard into the spot just below the center of the punching bag. Then, filled with a deep, hard fury, he continued to pummel the bag until he was exhausted enough to stumble into the shower and clean himself up.
He bought flowers on the way: daises and daffodils.
When he walked into her room, his weary, monotone face immediately lifted as he smiled lovingly at the woman who could very well have been sleeping. He walked quietly over to her bed, removed the older flowers from the vase, and replaced them.
"Hey, Montana," he said tiredly, and kissed her cheek before resuming his post at her bedside.