Disclaimer: Characters and setting belong to CBS and the CSI:NY creative team; the plot belongs to me.
A/N: As an act of contrition for the previous story. Thanks to marialisa, elainhe, and sallyjetson for the support!
I Don't
He watched her sleeping, her head on his shoulder, the lights in the plane turned low for the night flight. His heart tripped at the peace on her face; there had been days not too long ago when that peace was hard to find.
He looked down at their linked hands in his lap, new rings shining around the fourth finger on each left hand. Her fingers were curled softly around his, even in her sleep cautious about holding on too tight, causing pain to knuckles crushed during the hostage situation.
He pushed a strand of hair out of her face, remembering the moment he had known the ordeal was over. She had been the first to reach him, and the guilt and anguish on her face when she saw what had been done to him had hurt worse than broken bones or bloody wounds. She had been too quiet in the ambulance as the EMTs had done a rough and ready patch job before transporting him to the hospital.
She had stayed with him in the hospital until he had begged her to find out what had happened to Adam, first brutalized and now tortured with guilt for giving up the codes. Danny hadn't wanted her in the room while the doctors had poked and prodded and bandaged him.
Obediently, she had gone to sit with Adam, listening patiently to Adam's grinding agony over what he saw – may always see – as a vicious and cowardly betrayal. When she had come back into his room, she had been as white as he was. She had finally begged the attending doctor to put Adam under before he tore himself in half with fear and shame.
She had sat silent, unmoving, beside Danny as Mac and Peyton, Hawkes and Stella, other members of the team, finally his father and mother, had come to see him, to make sure he was going to mend, to give him praise, answer his questions, or question his sanity, depending on their own temperament.
Until Flack had walked through the door. Even now, Danny remembered the panic that had flooded him when Lindsay had stood up and thrown herself at Flack. His heart monitor had actually gone off, causing a flurry of nurses and even a doctor to break into the room. He had ignored them all, seeing only the love of his life, the woman he had waited for, the woman he had ached for, in the arms of his best friend, wrapped around his neck, whispering into the curve of his throat.
He had frozen with terror; then he had burned with fury, until his hearing, unnaturally sharpened by dread, caught what she was saying, "Oh God, Don. I thought they shot him; I thought he was dead. I thought I had got him killed."
Over and over, the words: 'I thought I had got him killed.'
Even now, looking at his ring on her hand, he shook his head, amazed. As if he wouldn't have walked through fire to keep one hair on her head from being singed. Hell, he'd taken a beat-down for Adam, to keep him sane, give him back a modicum of the self-esteem those thugs had destroyed. As if he wouldn't have died, gladly, laughing, to keep Lindsay safe. As if the night spent in her arms on the pool table in his apartment had not been reward enough.
And yet, here he was, with a lifetime still before him, a lifetime to spend with this woman, burrowed against his chest, curled under the barely adequate blankets they had been given when they boarded the airplane. Here he was, married, going to Italy for a honeymoon, so full of energy he couldn't have slept if the god Hypnos himself had handed him a drink.
He smiled as Lindsay snuggled in closer, her hand now resting flat on his stomach; evidently, he thought wryly, Danny Messer did cuddle.
She had looked so resigned when she saw him watching her cavalcade of police cars – and how, he wondered, had Stella and Don managed to pull that one off? He had been glued to the spot, like a child terrified of the thing he longed for. His father, his brother – they had rattled him, he could admit that now. His brother's helplessness, which Danny blamed himself for, combined with his father's questioning of his own commitment – his ability to see things through. Had he thought about it – questioned himself?
He hadn't had a chance. Don, with his fierce protective nature, had shaken some sense into him, literally. And had stood by him, supporting him all the way.
Danny smoothed a hand over Lindsay's hair, running one finger down her cheek. He really would have hated to have to kill Don if that scene in the hospital had been what he first thought it was. He grinned a little, wondering if Don had managed to convince Stella to help him 'clean out the hotel room'. Lindsay really was a master manipulator, planning that little move nearly as soon as she had begun planning her own wedding.
He stretched back in the seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit without waking up Lindsay. Only four more hours to go, and although he may have initially entertained visions of renewing his membership in the 'mile-high club' with Lindsay on this trip, he banished them firmly. First of all, it was difficult to imagine any way to achieve that goal any more – the attendants were on constant watch for any questionable behaviour. Second, Lindsay was not some pick-up or sexual exploit: she was his wife.
Chuckling to himself at the complete improbability of that statement, Danny closed his eyes and slept.
"I thought you spoke Italian?" Lindsay's voice was just a tiny bit frustrated.
"Speak, yes. Read, no." Danny linked hands with her, hefting one bag in his right hand. "Come on; let's forget the train. I have a better idea anyway."
He pulled her over to a car rental place, and Lindsay listened in the bemusement to the rapid-fire exchange. Within a few minutes, Danny was taking her suitcase from her and handing it to the young man behind the counter, then accepting a set of keys, which he bounced in his hand as he turned to her with a grin.
"Come on."
"Danny, what about our suitcases?" Lindsay tried to slow him down.
"Paolo is going to have them delivered to the pensionne. Si, Paolo?" Danny said.
"Si. Yes. Consegna. Delivery – pensionne." He smiled and nodded as Danny pulled Lindsay towards the doors.
"Danny? What if … what if our bags go missing?" Lindsay glanced over her shoulder dubiously. Paolo grinned and waved cheerfully.
"Then I'll buy you all new clothes, Montana. Come on – I've solved our transportation problem."
"We had a problem? I thought we were going to take the train?"
Danny scowled at the idea of another tortuous minute in close proximity to Lindsay, in a crowd of people, not being able to touch her properly. "This will be better. Close your eyes."
Dutifully, she did so.
"Ta da!" Danny presented his brainstorm with a proud flourish.
"Oh my God."
"Ain't she a beaut? A Ducati ST2 Sport Turismo with a 4 stroke V twin engine – one of Italy's finest."
Lindsay looked with shock at the shining red motorcycle in front of her, and her husband – her husband! – standing in front of her holding out a helmet, a five-year-old's grin lighting up his eyes.
"No way."
"Linds, it's perfectly safe. And it's a great way to travel around these roads. And we can stop anywhere we want. It's about 6 hours to Venice, and about 6 hours to Sicily by road. We won't have to worry about transport strikes. And we're both already in leathers." He stroked a hand down the buttery soft sleeve of the jacket he had given her for her birthday a month earlier.
By the time she had come up with any logical objections other than "Oh my God", which was lacking a certain persuasive eloquence, she felt, Danny was already straddling the bike, helmet strapped on, motor idling, and pure impish delight radiating from his very being. He held out the helmet again.
"What's the matter, Montana? Don't you trust me?"
She twined her arms around his neck, leaning against him, and kissing the pout off his mouth. Huskily, she whispered, "No."
His hand caressed the jean-clad ass so temptingly in reach, then gave her a little slap. "Come on, Mrs. Messer, be a daredevil."
Ten minutes later they had navigated their way out of the airport, and Danny was opening the throttle to test the Ducati's maneuverability on winding Italian back roads. Seated behind him, Lindsay wrapped her arms around his waist and hung on, eyes closed, waiting for the moment that the bike's wheels left the road and launched them into space.
When, after several moments, that had not happened, she risked opening her eyes. They were traveling northeast into the city, and the morning sun was flooding the countryside with the peculiar warm light of an Italian spring. The landscape seemed to glow, and when Danny pulled off to the side of the road and cut the engine, she could feel a sort of shimmer in the air.
He half-turned on the seat, helping her with her helmet. He hooked the helmets both on the handlebars, then turned back, cupping her face in his hands.
"Danny," she said warningly, seeing the predatory look in his eyes. When his mouth covered hers, though, she simply melted into him, opening to him eagerly. When he finally ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, she was blind and breathless.
He glanced around, then swung off the bike, taking her with him. He pushed the bike further off the road, grabbing her hand again, pulling her protesting and laughing to a small stand of trees a few hundred meters off the road. He trapped her against a tree, out of sight of the road, and shoved her jacket off her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides.
"Danny! Are you crazy? We can't – not here! Oh God," her voice disappeared in her throat as he pushed her t-shirt up and his mouth fastened on her breast, teasing her through the lace bra. She could feel his arousal pressed against her and instinctively rolled against him, seeking relief for the need that built like a volcano, threatening to burn her up and consume her.
He groaned into her mouth, his hand undoing her jeans, and plunging into her dripping heat in one motion, his thumb stroking her centre while his mouth continued to graze on her breasts. Her hands clenched as her inner muscles clenched around his finger in shocked climax.
He took her scream into his mouth, his tongue mirroring the motions of his fingers until her knees gave out and she collapsed against him. She was gasping for breath when he gently dropped her jacket to the ground, her t-shirt, jeans and underwear swiftly following, as he eased her down to the ground on top of the thick leather coats. His clothes didn't last long, but when Lindsay was ready for him to fill her, to complete the journey she had already begun, he pulled her naked body close against his, and began at the beginning again, kissing her gently, lovingly, as his hand explored the curves and warmth of her body.
"Danny, please… please… I want… ogod… I want… you, now… ogod." She was incoherent with desire, desperate to feel him inside her, to feel him lose control. She pushed him over onto his back, and rose above him, the sunlight flooding through the leaves dazzling her, surrounding her in a lambent light reflected in Danny's eyes as she slid herself over him, sheathing him deep inside her.
She reared up, eyes dazed, and began to move, feeling his tension building to meet hers. She could feel him holding back, giving her time, and she leaned forward to bite his lip, catching it in her teeth before whispering, "Now. I want to feel you go over now."
With a muffled curse, he wrapped his hands around her arms, and pulled her close before rolling her over, one hand running down to the base of her spine, holding her bucking frame close against him as his thrusts became harder and faster, pushing her over the edge, and then leaping after her to catch her on the fall.
They lay quietly enfolded in each other's arms as the sun inched slowly through the sky. Lindsay could feel the beating of his heart against hers, his breath against her neck. She ran her hands up his back, feeling the silken muscles jump beneath her hands. She pressed an openmouthed kiss on the pulse at his throat, and felt rather than heard him groan.
He moved his weight partly off her, leaning on one hand and smirking down at her flushed and satisfied face, pushing a lock of damp hair off her forehead, then lazily trailing his fingertips over her quivering breasts. "Well, Mrs. Messer. What do you think of the benefits of a motorbike now? Or do you want to travel in a crowded train across Italy?"
She didn't even bother with the obvious answer, pulling his head down for another searing kiss. There was no hurry to get to Rome or anywhere else; they had all the time in the world.