Spoilers: Um. I think the only thing this piece spoils is the English language.
Disclaimer: Um. I would renounce this story, but I kind of like it. Oh, and officially the longest singular 'Document' I've ever uploaded.
Author's Note: What a Super Bowl, huh? Wow. Damn, that was a good match, and I don't even watch NFL. Hell, I'm not even in the right country. A little writing exercise in point-of-view- and mood-changes, here.
Danny shifted his weight on the couch, letting himself sink further into the surprisingly comfortable cushions with a sigh. He could feel Martin's eyes on him as he did so, and didn't bother stifling the smirk that that provoked; his own eyes didn't stray from the little figures on the television. To his surprise, he heard a soft laugh. Now he did look at Martin.
"Would you stop fidgeting?" Martin asked, his voice less cold than his words. Danny grinned at him in the way that never failed to tell Martin exactly who was in control.
"Sorry, man," he apologized, earning an almost-smile from Martin. "Your couch is just so comfortable."
Martin's eyes were cautious for a second before he turned back to the game as the commentator yelled something apparently groundbreaking. Danny didn't miss the opportunity.
"It's like new," he continued, knowing that Martin was trying to listen to the commentator; Martin was always trying to listen. Except to Danny. "You don't use it much, do you?" he asked innocently. He knew exactly where he wanted this conversation to go, and he liked to think he knew Martin well enough to predict his responses.
Martin turned to him with a look of bored incredulity that told Danny he was totally confused as to why he was being asked about his couch, but mentally searching through the past few seconds for any sign of where this was going.
Martin was quick like that.
"No, not really," he responded finally, now looking a little defensive. "I don't really have a use for it. I don't watch TV much, and I have a bed to sleep in, Danny," he told him impatiently.
This was not where Danny had envisioned the conversation going, but couldn't bring himself to care; he was starting to like this tangent even more than the last. Martin looked at a grinning Danny as if Danny were incredibly dense.
"You know, Fitz," he started, lowering his voice just enough, "there are other ways to use a couch."
At that, Martin physically froze, and Danny suddenly wondered if he weren't incredibly dense. His usual teasing invoked one of three responses in Martin: a silent smile-and-eye-roll, a playfully scathing comeback, or a total shut down of emotion.
This was the latter, and it was usually very, very annoying.
It would drag on for a few minutes – normally enveloped in awkward silence – then simply be forgotten and replaced again with easy banter.
Danny liked to think of it as Hit-and-Run flirting; at least on Martin's end. The… lapses usually occurred when Danny said something particularly suggestive. Or blatantly sex. Like the other day when Martin had landed on top of him – entirely out of breath – after having been shoved by a suspect who had since been collared by Vivian.
Of all the things Danny could have said or done in that moment, the only cognizant thought he'd had was Maybe we should wait till we're alone, Martin. To which Martin had responded by shoving himself off the floor – and Danny – sticking his chin out and ignoring Danny for the whole ride back to work.
The whole hour of it.
That instance had been particularly painful.
This one, however, was interrupted by a shrill ringing. Danny fought back a laugh as Martin just about leapt off the couch – not too dissimilar from the other day – and yanked the phone off the hook with surprising purpose. Danny almost lost his control when Martin's hello was the tiniest bit shaky.
Danny couldn't help but listen.
"No, you didn't."
And his voice was still a little shaky, but for an entirely different reason. Danny frowned, concerned; it wasn't Jack, Martin would have informed him by now. That, and Jack wasn't much for landlines. No, this was personal. And though Danny felt a little more guilt over eavesdropping, the expression on Martin's face was enough for him to continue; he looked utterly somber.
"I'm fine – I'm well – and yourself?" he asked without emotion. Danny's frown deepened. Who on earth was Martin talking to? Danny wanted to hit them; and then his question was answered.
"Good. How is mom?"
Danny sighed and shook his head. That would be right: Victor Fitzgerald. Danny silently cursed the man for interrupting their evening, despite the somewhat awkward turn it had been taking. He glanced at the television, then back at his partner, who had since turned his back to Danny. For a second, he had the horrible thought that Martin may be crying, but dismissed it just as quickly.
Just the line of his back gave off enough anger to scare a young child. The light flickered as the camera covering the football field changed angles, and Danny could just make out Martin squaring his shoulders, his back tightening, straightening under his dress shirt. Anger and concern flickered through Danny's mind simultaneously as Martin finally answered.
"I'll see," he said sternly. "Goodnight." It was less of a greeting and more of a command. Or a response to a command. Danny heard the beep of the phone as Martin hung up, and waited until some of the stress had dissipated from Martin's stance. It took what must have been five minutes.
"What did he want?" Danny asked, not bothering with pretenses. Martin was still for a few seconds, and Danny wondered if he'd asked the wrong question. Then Martin turned around, his expression conflicted; anger, resignation, sarcasm etched in his features.
"Nothing," he said, and when it was evident that Danny didn't believe him, "He was just being himself; don't worry about it, Danny." That was more of an order, too, but Danny didn't particularly care. Martin had to start living his own life – despite the fact that he seemed to think he was – and stop allowing his father to make him so angry. Make him feel like a naughty kid when he was almost forty.
It was unfair, and that annoyed Danny almost as much as Martin's blatant lie.
"I'll stop worrying when you look less distressed," he countered, eyebrows raised, bridging his real feelings and knowing it.
"I'm not distressed," Martin argued, his tense voice betraying any hope of that statement being believed. "Victor's just… I'm frustrated."
Four words, and Martin had managed to twice surprise Danny. Firstly, it was the first time he'd heard Martin call his father by his given name, and secondly, Martin was actually admitting to feeling something other than 'fine'. For once. Danny had a sneaking suspicion that it had as much to do with getting him off his back as it did with honesty, though, and stood up to take a few steps closer.
"About what?" Danny asked again, his voice showing a surprising amount of concern. He'd meant it to be more forceful than that. Martin's jaw clenched and he crossed his arms, not bothering to conceal his irritation. Ironic, given the circumstances.
"There's a… thing he wants me to go to," Martin said to Danny's surprise, emphasizing said 'thing' with a flick of his wrist. "It's just a stupid party he and my mother want me to attend." Danny frowned, and Martin seemed to notice because he continued. "There will be a lot of eligible women there, and besides, it's about time I met some new people," Martin said with a bitter laugh, and Danny hardly had to wonder whether Martin was directly quoting his father.
"That don't work for Jack Malone," Danny added, showing he understood what Martin was saying and earning a fleeting smile. Martin sighed again and turned away. Danny watched the light flicker across Marin's face, echoing his emotions.
"Victor Fitzgerald's only son: unwed and working for Jack Malone," he said finally. Martin laughed again, this time almost amused. "You'd think I was heir to something; I feel like I'm in a freaking Jane Austen novel," he snorted. Danny laughed a little; Martin wasn't shutting down, and that gave him a little hope.
"Wait, unwed? Your father wants you to meet a wife there?" Danny asked incredulously, Martin's previous statement dawning on him belatedly.
"Always has," Martin sighed. A sudden smile lit his eyes. "You should have seen him when Ellen Parker and I were holding hands… I think he actually smiled," Martin added sardonically. Danny smirked.
"You and Ellen didn't work out, I suppose," Danny stated, trying – and knowing full well he was failing – to lighten the conversation, make Martin more comfortable. Martin, however, snorted at that.
"I think we were maybe… six?" Martin guessed, and Danny couldn't help the image of a little Martin blushing over his girlfriend that popped into his brain. He smiled.
"Ah," was all he could think of. That, and a few certain ways to punish Victor. He figured it best not to voice those to Martin, however. "So you're off to your parents' in search of true love, then?" he asked.
Martin's eyes flashed with anger as they snapped back to his own, and Danny suddenly regretted the barb.
"Dammit, Danny, don't mock me," Martin demanded, his voice rising in both anger and decibels. It was this that Danny had been trying to avoid; Martin angry, and him responding in kind.
"Then stop doing stupid things," he said curtly, the still-thinking part of his brain cursing his short temper. "You keep bending to your father's every whim, Martin, and it isn't getting you anywhere."
Martin's eyes flashed with surprise for a tiny moment, before he clamped it down.
"I can't just not go, Danny," he informed him with such certainty that Danny almost believed him.
"I don't understand you, man," Danny almost yelled, the tension getting to him with more force than he'd expected. This whole thing was just such a foreign concept to him; living for and through someone else, despite knowing the futility of it and that the outcome is only going to be more and more frustration. It annoyed him that Martin – so strong, so independent – would stand for it, let alone defend it.
"And I'm not expecting you to, Danny," Martin bit back, almost as angry. And exactly what Martin meant by that, Danny didn't really want to know. Still, his mind ran frustratingly wild with more and more cruel meanings he could put to that phrase. Everything from his childhood to his friendship with Martin could be applied to that. Which hurt Danny more than he really cared.
He knew he was being petty, letting his resentment towards Victor colour his thoughts, but he really couldn't care. Arguing with Martin, more often than not, was an exercise in futility. And a particularly brutal one at that. Every time he thought he was getting through, Martin would shut off again, steel himself, become an upstanding Fitzgerald.
Which, at the moment, was incredibly ironic.
"But you don't want to go?" Danny tried.
"Who are you to tell me what I want?" Martin demanded, and Danny didn't bother telling him that it had actually been a question. He saw a flicker of resentment in his eyes, and wondered who it was directed towards. "Now you're being as bad as he is."
And that might possibly constitute as getting somewhere. At least in Martin's world. Still, Danny didn't particularly like being compared to Victor Fitzgerald. A little of the anger disappeared and Danny shut his eyes and sighed.
"I'm your friend, Martin," Danny answered. From the look Martin gave him, Danny knew that they both knew that that wasn't quite the truth. But that was a different conversation for a different time.
"And he's my father, Danny" Martin retorted in an oddly definitive way. A silence settled in the room – sirens still blaring outside, television still droning on excitedly – and Martin just shook his head, letting himself collapse onto the couch. "Blood is thicker than water," Martin said after a few seconds.
Danny thought that over for a few seconds before snorting and collapsing next to Martin.
"Yeah," he grunted, letting his head fall back against the couch. "So is ethanol." He glanced at Martin just in time to see his eyes widen a little in surprise before he frowned, not bothering to mask the concern in his expression. Danny looked away, not wanting the concern he saw; this was about Martin, not about him.
"Were you talking about you or you father?" Martin asked suddenly, and Danny had to fight back his immediate response of bitter sarcasm. He thought about it for a second, ignoring the initial shock of Martin asking something so personal. He didn't do it very often, and Danny figured that was because it left him open to other people's questions. Give and take.
But, he knew, he had asked enough questions, made enough assumptions and pushed enough buttons tonight to warrant more than just the one question from Martin. He thought for a second – he hated lying, especially to Martin – before answering the question as honestly as he could.
"I don't know," he sighed, suddenly tired. He knew that Martin probably wanted him to leave; he had to be at least as tired as Danny, if not more so. After all, he had just had a conversation with his father; vindictive and terse as ever, Danny imagined.
In a confusing-as-hell way, Danny could understand Martin's defensiveness; he'd been like that for years. Which was what made it so much more important that Martin see what Victor was doing; what he was doing.
Martin's question, coupled with that thought, brought back a barrage of memories: what Danny had told himself after The Accident, after what the social workers had told him.
Papi was a good man; Papi took care of me and Rafi; Papi wasn't to blame for anything. Papi was a good man.
Until Rafi had showed him the scars, told him what Papi really was, who Papi really was. And even then, his first reaction was to deny it. Papi was a good man. Rafi is a junkie. It was that simple for a very, very long time. Then Sylvia and Nickie forced him to remember, to help Rafi, to believe him.
That unexplained resentment he'd harbored for his father his whole life wasn't because he had died, wasn't because he had left him and Rafi alone. How he'd managed to convince himself that it was, he didn't know, but he'd seen enough screwed up kids in his job to know why.
Danny looked up from his thoughts as he realized that Martin was staring at him; had been for some time. No, not staring at him – watching him. With some intensity. When their eyes met, he saw again that same concern in Martin's eyes.
"I don't know, Martin," he admitted again. "Probably both of us." He was reluctant to say it, but he knew that honestly was probably the best way to get through to Martin, who could probably tell if Danny was lying anyway. There was hope that Martin would respond in kind.
Or maybe he'd just stay silent. Great. Interrogation turned introspection.
Still, he was loathe to recall their previous topic. He and Martin had settled into the contemplative silence, each picking through and over their own thoughts. Finally, Danny sighed, deciding that Martin needed to choose. Whether he really wanted to or not was irrelevant, as far as Danny was concerned; Martin needed to do this.
That, and Danny really wanted to know if he'd gotten through.
"So are you going?" he asked, not amount of judgment in his voice. As much as he wanted to force Martin into this miniature defiance of his father, it was still – unfortunately – his own decision.
Martin didn't respond for a few seconds, then looked at Danny with some amount of guilt and disappointment. He didn't know who the disappointment was directed at, Danny, or Martin himself. He decided not to ask, and when Martin averted his eyes, he knew all too well.
"Yes," he answered quietly, an almost abashed blush lighting his cheeks. Danny swallowed a sigh, knowing it would only make Martin feel unnecessarily guiltier – regardless of how much he wanted to do just that.
He knew that Martin's now-imminent visit to his parents' house was enough punishment in itself for agreeing to go. Instead, he nodded.
"I didn't mean to offend you, you know," he told Martin, trying to apologize without actually apologizing. He was rewarded with a smile – one of Martin's real smiles – for his efforts. He grinned back. He couldn't help testing the waters just a little more. "Pushover."
He knew he was forgiven when a pillow hit him in the face.
"Would you stop fidgeting?" Martin demanded as Danny continued to squirm. He'd been doing it for the better part of an hour, and as amusing as it was, it was starting to irritate him. Worse was that, whenever Danny moved, Martin couldn't help the glances he sent to the other side of the couch. The man snuggled like a two-year-old with sex appeal. He didn't realize quite how disturbed that thought was until it was fully formed.
Martin tried to ignore Danny as he grinned at him – couldn't, and caved, smiling when Danny apologized – and started in. This was never good. Martin tended to lose these battles without so much as a shred of dignity. It didn't help that all the blood in his body tended to run in two opposite directions simultaneously. Danny was the only person he'd ever met who managed to aggravate, embarrass and arouse him with just one comment.
He answered Danny's queries with a little suspicion, hoping he would just let the whole topic drop. How the hell else could someone use a –
Oh.
Oh, no. Danny could not be saying this. It was quite possibly the cruelest torture he'd ever endured. Now he had a very clear mental image of exactly what else someone could use a couch for, and he was pretty sure he would never be able to look at this couch indifferently again.
To make matters worse – and the image clearer – Danny was suddenly closer. Martin could smell him, see his smirk out of the corner of his eye, not daring to look away from the television. He tensed, locking all of his muscles in place, for fear of doing something terribly, terribly stupid.
And why did Danny have to be so damn pretty?
He was saved from further thoughts as a shrill and familiar ringing hit his eardrums. He just about jumped off the couch, hoping that Danny didn't notice the speed to answer it.
And instantly wished he hadn't.
"Martin."
It was less of a greeting and more of a statement. Meant for the purposes of establishing what, Martin didn't know. Didn't really care, just wanted his father off the phone. It was possible that awkward silences with Danny were better than this.
"I didn't interrupt anything?" Victor asked indifferently. Martin knew that even if he answered in the affirmative, his father would ignore him.
"No, you didn't." He could play emotionless as well as his father could. Well, when it came to their relationship, he could. He couldn't hide from some people; one of whom was staring rather intently at his as he spoke, and it he wasn't so distracted, he'd probably scowl at Danny.
"How are you, son?" came his response. Martin almost cringed at the word, caught himself at the last minute. Son. That meant he wanted something.
"I'm fine," he said, then thinking better of it, "I'm well." He didn't want Victor thinking he was anything less than happy. And, most of the time, that would have been true. It just so happened that he was talking to someone he quite positively loathed sometimes. The ferocity of the thought made Martin feel a stab of guilt. "And yourself?"
"Well, well," he said distractedly, as if trying to rush the formalities without being too obvious. Martin honestly didn't know why he still bothered; surely he would know that Martin wasn't quite the gullible, affection-starved child he once was.
But Martin wasn't going to let him get away with it. "Good. How's mom?" he asked, wondering if he sounded as indifferent as he wanted to. As much as he resented his parents, they were still his parents. His mother had still mothered him – when she'd had the time and patience – and despite her long absences when he was a child, she would always look at him with affection when she got home. At least for a few days before she got bored and flew to Scandinavia, or Yugoslavia, or anywhere that didn't have her 'family'.
He felt Danny's eyes leave him for a moment, and took that chance to turn around. His thoughts were quickly becoming far darker than he cared for, his own resentment making him both angry and guilty. He felt the distantly familiar lump in his throat as his eyes stung.
He barely listened to what his father was saying until he heard the name 'Lauren'. Ah, so this was what the call was about. Marriage. Families. Blood lines. He felt a sudden spasm of amusement as he thought how very pathetic his father was for being so desperate. That, thankfully, chased away the near-tears.
"Now, Martin, I know that you had a relationship with one of your colleagues."
It took mental recitation of seven Latin verb conjugations to relax Martin after that statement. He remained silent for fear of telling his father exactly what he knew. Or didn't know, for that matter.
"And I'm sorry that it didn't work out," he said without a trace or remorse. "But it's time you moved on, son." Martin forced back a bark of laughter at that. If only his father knew just how very much he'd 'moved on'. To another colleague, no less. A colleague whose past and heritage would definitely not meet his father's standards. No need to mention that he was a man.
"You're only young for so long." You can only father children for so many years. That, again, was both amusing and aggravating. Funny, because Martin didn't want children; he never really had. He liked them well enough, but only when they were other people's. And not crying. That, and he had a feeling that conceiving a child would be a little more than awkward for him.
Victor dragged on for a little longer, skirting the issue – whatever it was – and Martin almost told him to hurry up. He could feel Danny's eyes on him still, and that was a little disconcerting. The longer he spent on the phone, the more questions Danny was going to have afterwards.
"Your mother and I are having some acquaintances for the evening on the twenty-second. There will be a lot of eligible women there, Martin," he said, trying to make that sound like a good thing. Martin rolled his eyes, but felt his face redden with embarrassment and anger both. "Besides, I think it's time you met some new people; made some contacts here in Washington, outside of the FBI."
The message was as good as plastered to every word Victor spoke. It was that last comment that did it. Jack Malone was a good agent; a good boss and a good man. He'd had his fair share of indiscretions, but Victor was the Deputy Director. No one got there without his own fair share of indiscretions. It was only that his father had been more vindictive and subtle about them.
Instead of voicing any of this, Martin simply said, "I'll see," not wanting to give his father the satisfaction of an outright surrender. There was a pause, and he could imagine Victor filling a glass tumbler with something strong, like talking to his son was just the most taxing thing on the planet. Another wave of resentment hit him, and he stated a goodnight through clenched teeth.
He didn't wait for a response before hanging up.
He stood for a few minutes, willing his temper down, ignoring and cursing the throbbing in his head. Individually, he willed his muscles to relax, starting from his neck and working his way down. The concentration helped a little, until Danny's voice – soft and concerned – broke his concentration.
He didn't want to have this conversation; his issues with his father were his own. He didn't want help, and, more importantly, he didn't need help. Especially not from Danny, who was now accusing him of being distressed. Which was irritating, because he was.
So he denied it, willing Danny to shut up before his temper got the better of him again. He crossed his arms as if to trap it in, and vaguely outlined his father's words. Or maybe not-so-vaguely, as he found himself almost quoting Victor. If it would get Danny to stop asking questions, he would be ably to calm himself down enough to think about this logically. Compartmentalize, like he usually did.
And of course Danny knew exactly what he meant when he told him. It was relatively common knowledge that his father hated Jack Malone and just about everything associated with him. It was still surprising to think that no one held that against him. His friends were much more trustworthy than Martin gave them credit for a lot of the time.
When the conversation turned to Martin's childhood girlfriend-for-a-night, he was incredibly grateful. Danny smirked, and Martin would stop the smile that flicked the corners of his own mouth.
But then Danny made fun of him. Which, usually, wouldn't have annoyed him; but tonight, he was already on a short fuse, and Danny's mockery didn't help. Suddenly, they were almost yelling. Martin could see anger in Danny's eyes, knew his looked similar.
"I don't understand you, man!"
"And I'm not expecting you to, Danny," he bit back, not quite knowing what he meant by that, but hoping through his anger that Danny wouldn't take it the wrong way – whichever way that was. A hurt expression passed over Danny's face for just a second
"But you don't want to go?"
"Who are you to tell me what I want?" He felt the familiar feeling of being shoved around, and couldn't help the image of Victor that popped into his head. The resentment he felt was entirely for his father, he knew, but Danny was an easy target. He was here, for one thing. He knew he could hurt Danny, where he would just bore his father. "Now you're being as bad as he is."
That, and he knew that Danny understood – at least on some level – why he was so angry with his father. Hell, Danny was probably more angry at Victor than he was. He certainly seemed to be.
"I'm your friend, Martin," Danny said, his voice almost pleading, and Martin didn't bother to stop the expression that he knew was written over his face. The expression that told Danny that he knew that wasn't quite the truth. And just like that, the anger disappeared. It turned into resignation as Martin flopped onto the couch gracelessly.
"Blood is thicker than water," he said, hating his mind for failing to come up with something so proverbial, so bland. So much simpler than what he was truly feeling. He was surprised and relieved when Danny snorted, landing next to him, closer than before.
"Yeah, so is ethanol," Danny pointed out with bitter indifference as he let his head fall to the back of the couch. Martin forced his eyes away from Danny's very inviting neck, shocked by how quickly his mind could switch gear. It wasn't too hard to comprehend, though, with Danny sitting so close, looking so… tired.
He looked utterly exhausted, but a slight frown creased his brow as his eyes met Martin's.
"Were you talking about you or your father?" Martin asked when Danny looked away. He wasn't quite sure what had prompted him to ask, but he didn't say anything as Danny seemed to truly think about that. It wasn't supposed to be a difficult question.
"I don't know," he sighed finally. Martin nodded, despite knowing that Danny couldn't see him. He didn't interrupt, didn't move or speak, as Danny closed his eyes.
Just as Martin thought he had fallen asleep, Danny frowned and muttered something in soft, insistent Spanish. The only word he caught was Papi.
Danny was silent for a good ten minutes longer before he spoke again, his voice a little softer, a little rawer. "I don't know, Martin," he said again, this time more resolute. "Probably both of us."
Martin knew how much that admission cost Danny and he felt, again, a stab of guilt; this time over being so damn reticent. He owed Danny more than that. Just as he was about to say something, Danny spoke.
"So are you going?" he asked patiently. Martin was surprised to hear nothing but dethatched curiosity in Danny's voice, and he silently thanked him.
"Yes," Martin mumbled, nodding once. He could almost feel Danny's internal sigh. Again, he was thankful that Danny hadn't made this more painful than it already was.
Martin's now-imminent visit to his parents' house was punishment enough for being such a pushover.
"I didn't mean to offend you, you know," Danny said quietly. Martin suddenly had an overwhelming urge to kiss Danny for that. He settled for smiling and was rewarded with a brilliant grin that did nothing to allay the urge to kiss him. Danny's next comment, however, did. "Pushover," was all he said, smirk lighting his eyes as they turned back to the television screen.
Martin didn't think about what he was doing before picking up the nearest cushion.
I dont know how it worked, so feedback is loved!
Giorgia