Spoilers: My shoulder really hurts, but I don't know why. Hmm.

Disclaimer: WAT is coming back tonight! Series Return: hell yeah! Oh, and a week later, it's gone. Damn the television station!

Author's Note: This story happened because one: I liked the analogy of the armadillo, and two: I thought the Spanish translation sounded like a term of endearment. Certainly made me think more of armadillos than I used to...

It was impossible.

Tossing his keys onto the kitchen bench, Danny reached for a mug, tapping the coffee-maker on in the same movement. He stared, frowning as the machine made a few noises, protesting its overuse.

Try as he might, he couldn't figure it out. And Danny was usually very good at figuring these things out.

He recalled the image of Martin, stony-faced, almost terse; emotionless.

It was understandable to a point. No one wanted to talk about the reasons they became an addict; they became an addict so that they didn't have to talk about the reasons. Danny had been no exception, for a very long time. Martin was no exception, either, except that he was.

Martin could be factual about his addiction, honest in a bizarrely detached way, as if he weren't talking about himself, but getting him to open up emotionally… well, that was about as easy as skinning an armadillo.

He laughed at the parallel; it sounded like one out of a bad Western. But, he realized as the coffee pot gurgled, it was a rather apt one. Martin had the proverbially thick skin of that of an FBI agent, of a Fitzgerald, of an armadillo. Getting through that was a chore.

Bluntly, it took hacking: whacking the scalpel in until it hit flesh, stopping when the scalpel came to another armored plate, then starting again on the next one. Over and over. And Danny had never realized just how many plates of armor and armadillo had.

Then there was the roll-into-a-ball defense. Armadillos didn't have armored plates on their underside, much like Danny knew just where to hit Martin to make it count. But they rolled into a ball at the first sight of danger, hiding their underside and presenting only layers and layers of armor.

The same was, again, true of Martin.

Another gurgle from the coffee-maker brought him out of thought. He frowned at it, willing it to hurry up. It sputtered as if in apology and resumed its silent dripping. He wondered briefly if it was normal to have a conversation with one's kitchen appliances.

Then again, it wasn't particularly normal to know so much about small southeastern mammals, either. Where had he learned so much about them, anyway? He was pretty sure that armadillo was a Spanish word, too; meant 'little armored one'. He put it down to something he'd fallen asleep to one night or another after work; it wouldn't have been the first time.

There was a reason he knew every word to the Friends theme song, could recite just about every toothpaste jingle from memory and knew which infomercial was on without even looking. Whoever said that one couldn't learn in their sleep was obviously missing something of their data.

There was a coughing sound from the coffee-maker, reminding Danny of the real problem. Martin. Martin and his unbreakable skin. He frowned, drawing in a deep breath. He knew he should give Martin time – give him the same courtesy his sponsor had given him – but he also knew that it had been far longer than Danny had taken.

Almost nine months longer; nine months and forty-eight meetings longer. It had taken Martin ten or so sessions to actually say anything at all, but that wasn't unusual. And he had been clean for a good eight of those. Despite having his own sponsor, Martin hadn't objected to Danny attending the meetings with him, which, in Martin's world, was as good as actively inviting him.

And he had been holding out hope that Martin would finally say something real. Something of consequence, because this… This was just ridiculous. Martin wasn't in denial – wouldn't be at the meetings if he were – but he still didn't want to admit that there was something wrong other than his addiction.

He would talk about what he'd done, the people he'd pushed away – each time making eye contact with Danny as if in apology – the people he'd wronged, the effect it had had on his job. Anything but the fact that he was hurting. First physically, yes, but emotionally, Martin was still a little screwed up. And he would be until he admitted it and did something about it.

What exactly he needed to do, however, Danny wasn't sure. As horrible as the thought was, and as cruel as he felt for thinking it with such detachment, he had a feeling that Martin just needed to let go. To break down, and allow himself to feel what he usually wouldn't. What he usually wouldn't let himself.

The coffee-maker beeped in agreement – or perhaps that was contempt, it was hard to tell with inanimate objects – and Danny sighed, pouring himself a cup.

He didn't move from his position against the kitchen bench: leaning back against it, ankles crossed, both hands gripping his coffee in contemplation. He realized vaguely that he hadn't bothered turning any of the lights on; not that that really bothered him. Less power meant lower rent. Besides, he kind of like the dark when he was thinking; it helped him focus.

He brought the coffee to his lips, stifling the coffee-maker's warning beep as he turned it off, and swore as he felt on his lips the familiar tingle that accompanied liquid burns.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered as he fumbled for a glass shoving it under the tap in the dark, managing to spill water up his sleeve and coffee over the bench. Ignoring the discomfort of the water trickling slowly to his elbow as he raised the glass, he took a few gulps, then took a mouthful without swallowing, almost sighing as the burn cooled.

Frowning at the coffee-maker – which was now blinking smugly at him – he rolled his eyes and grabbed his shirt and sweater, yanking them both off with a shudder as the cold air of his apartment hit his wet skin. He swallowed the now-warm water in his mouth with a wince, and did the same thing again, wishing for the first time in a long time that he kept ice in his freezer.

Almost running out of the kitchen, he nearly choked on his water in surprise when someone knocked on his door. Looking around for a few seconds, wondering if he had time to finish what he was doing, he heard another knock; this time louder.

"Danny?"

And it just had to be Martin. He took a deep breath before opening the door, quirking his head to silently invite him in. Martin looked him up and down with an appraising but amused glint.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked with a small smirk. Realizing that he must look like an idiot – silent, surprised, shirtless and probably a little flushed – Danny held up a finger and flicked on the main light, hurrying to the kitchen.

Martin followed him with amusement and leaned against the doorframe as Danny spat the water into the sink.

"No, you're not interrupting anything," Danny assured him a bit shakily as Martin took in the state of his kitchen; coffee on the bench mixing with the water he'd spilled, his shirt and sweater tangled on the floor. "I burnt my mouth," he offered by way of explanation.

Martin just chuckled unbelievingly, shaking his head as if he'd expected nothing less. Danny felt for a second that he and Martin had somehow been switched; this situation seemed reversed. Usually it was Martin doing the stupid things while Danny laughed at him. And stared at his naked chest.

It was Danny's turn to smirk, now. Martin cleared his throat as he brought his eyes to Danny's. He flushed furiously as he saw Danny's smile before seeming to remember something.

"I, uh…" he started, and they were back in their own roles again. He took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the floor then back at Danny. "I wanted to thank you," he said matter-of-factly, like he'd been rehearsing it for the past hour. Which he may well have been, knowing Martin.

Though Danny was pretty sure he knew the answer, he asked anyway. "What for?" He leaned again against the bench, ignoring the shiver when a little of the cold bench came into contact with his bare back.

Martin blushed a little, barely visible in the soft light filtering in from the rest of the apartment. "For coming with me," he said, still leaning against the doorframe, but crossing his arms uncomfortably. "Not just tonight, but… You didn't have to come, but you did," he said, sounding almost surprised. Whether over the realization that that was true, or because he actually admitted it, Danny wasn't sure.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, leaning on opposite sides of the room.

"It isn't a favor, Fitz," Danny decided finally. And really, it hadn't been. He had done it because Martin needed it, not because he thought it would be a fun thing to do. He didn't realize how harsh the words sounded until Martin shifted, pulling his arms tighter, hurt flashing across his face. He cursed himself.

"I didn't mean that like it sounded," Danny told him almost desperately, taking a step closer. Martin's expression became a little wary, but he relaxed a little. Danny let out a breath. "I meant that I don't come with you reluctantly, as some random act of good will. I come because I want to," he said, hoping that those were the right words.

Martin looked considering for a few seconds before nodding, smiling a little. They were silent again, Danny standing in the middle of his kitchen, Martin still against the doorframe.

"I can't say it, Danny," Martin said suddenly, shifting a little. Danny frowned, at a total loss. He had a feeling that Martin had switched topic without informing him. He didn't say anything, though, assuming that Martin would eventually explain himself. Blue eyes met his across the kitchen.

"I can't…" He sighed in frustration, obviously struggling. He remained silent, letting Martin sort out his thoughts. Danny's frown became one of concern and he took a small step closer, not quite sure what he was intending on doing.

But Martin was saying something; something Danny knew was incredibly important. Both for Martin and for their relationship. Martin admitting this meant trust that Danny had never really had before; been teetering on the edge of, yes, but it had never been offered like this.

"And every time I talk at a meeting, I want to say it," he elaborated. His eyes met Danny's, and a flash of something unreadable passed across Martin's face. "But… Is it enough that I just tell you?" he asked.

Danny smiled a little but couldn't think of anything to say for a few seconds. Actually, it was exactly the opposite. He could think of a few hundred things to say, but none seemed right. He settled for a quiet, "Yeah."

He forced back the urge to ask the question he knew Martin wanted to answer, because there was obviously still a rather prominent part of him that didn't want to answer. Probably didn't even want to be asked.

Martin's eyes flitted restlessly around the room, and Danny figured that Martin was rather glad for the dim light. He, on the other hand, wished he could see Martin more clearly.

"I… Dammit, Danny, I'm not good with words," he said, his voice getting louder. Danny wondered idly whether Martin was frustrated with himself or with the whole situation. Or just with Danny.

But apparently the frustration was not towards Danny, because then Martin was kissing him with a ferocity that just about knocked him to the floor. For a man who was not good with words, he was certainly good at using his mouth.

At that thought, Danny pulled back. This wasn't solved; nowhere near, in fact. This was Martin doing something stupid and reckless because he was frustrated. And no matter how much Danny wanted it, it was essentially taking advantage. This – whatever it was – would only confuse Martin more, make matters even more complicated.

"Martin," he breathed, voice steadier than he expected. Martin's eyes held his, his expression covering everything from shame to anger to desire and back again.

"I should go," Martin said, his voice emotionless, and Danny felt the familiar punch of dread to his gut. God, the last thing that would help this situation was this.

Martin sighed and moved quickly but steadily out of the kitchen, shaking his head. Danny moved after him, cursing the whole situation; cursing himself for handling it so terribly, though he honestly couldn't see how else he could have handled it.

"Martin," he called, enough authority in his voice to get Martin to stop. He almost sighed in relief when he did, though the expression in his face was enough to quell any feelings of accomplishment he was feeling.

"Look, I shouldn't have done that," Martin said, not sounding particularly convinced by his own words. "It was out of line."

Danny, again, remained silent. It was frustrating, knowing that Martin needed something that he probably didn't really want. Martin sighed heavily in the silent room, and Danny could hear his breath wavering a little. He looked up to an expression he hadn't seen on Martin since the night that had started all this insanity. It terrified him.

"It hurts, Danny," he said quietly, and Danny wondered whether Martin had ever admitted that to anyone at all.

This time, it was he who kissed Martin.

He felt the fabric of Martin's shirt against his bare chest – didn't recall Martin taking his jacket off – as Martin's hands closed around his arms, pulling him closer.

Danny didn't have to think to know exactly where this was headed. Which was probably good, because he couldn't think; not with Martin's mouth on his, not with Martin's hands running down his chest to tear at his belt.

He briefly wondered what repercussions this would have come morning. Because there would be some, he knew. More than likely, Martin would simply be gone when he woke up; leaving no trace that he had ever been there. He'd ignore the whole incident afterwards, pretending it hadn't happened. Pretend nothing had happened, or stop talking to Danny altogether.

Either way, Danny was pretty sure that Martin was going to regret this come morning; wasn't too sure that he couldn't say the same about himself.

But for the moment, Danny couldn't really care because Martin had somehow maneuvered them into Danny's bedroom, removing their clothes in the process. And because he knew that whatever issues Martin had would at least be a little dulled by this. Whatever 'this' was.

Martin stopped suddenly, his breath fast against Danny's mouth. His eyes met Danny's – something that surprised him – with an unreadable look in them. More than pain, and more than overflowing need; his eyes held something that Danny knew was significant, but couldn't quite grasp as Martin pushed him onto his bed.

Martin's mouth was on his again, insistent, and Danny pushed him onto his back, switching their positions. Martin growled – though out of surprise or desire, Danny didn't know – as he nuzzled his cheek, despite knowing that that wasn't allowed tonight. This was a time in which Martin needed to be in control, but Danny still needed a moment to process things.

"My little armored one," he whispered against Martin's neck, taken aback by the affection in his voice. Apparently Martin was too, because he pulled back and looked at him, and for just a second, Martin's expression was perfectly calm.

--