Spoilers: I feel a chapter story coming on. What do you think?

Disclaimer: I combined a few different things I was working on into one piece. Hope it flows well…

Author's Note: Okay. Last day of summer holidays, and it's raining. Raining and cold. I'm wearing a jumper and wooly, knee-high socks! And I'm still cold. Evil, evil weather.

Martin tried not to squirm as Danny just stared.

"No coffee?" Danny asked finally, his voice holding a definite amount of incredulity, laced with a definite amount of dread. Martin shook his head, lips slightly pursed.

"Not a single drop," he enunciated. To Martin's surprise, Danny started to laugh.

"You? Martin Fitzgerald; the one with the coffee cup permanently affixed to his face. You!" Danny seemed to find this more amusing than he really should have, but deciding that he found Danny comments humorous and not insulting, Martin grinned.

"I was only a kid," he reminded Danny, who looked dubious. "But really. No coffee for a week…"

Danny laughed as Martin shuddered and took a sip of his coffee as if to prove to himself that it did exist after all. He'd only been fifteen, but there had been enough sleepless nights of homework assignments and sci-fi marathons on television for him to have already been a coffee drinker. And an avid one at that. The percolator that had lived in his parents' kitchen was rarely-if-ever cold.

After Danny's laughs subsided – Martin really didn't see what was so funny, despite his own amusement – he smirked and looked up at him.

"So what prompted that stint?" Danny asked, seeming to be honestly curious. This worried Martin. He'd gone out for coffee with Danny because they'd finished early – finding missing people didn't really have a time clock – but had been ordered home. Danny had offered, and Martin's first reaction had been to decline and run away, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep any time soon. For one, his neighbors seemed to take it upon themselves to make the building shake with noise during the afternoon.

But now Danny was asking lots of questions that Martin didn't want to answer. Questions about things he was ashamed of, despite not really having had any say in them; about parts of himself he'd never really told anyone about; about parts of his life that no one had ever bothered asking after.

It was all depressingly similar to a date. Or an interrogation; he wasn't sure which. He wasn't sure which would be worse, or, really, whether there was any difference. Now Martin was left with the choice of lying to Danny, breezing over things, or actually telling the truth. He sighed.

"Etiquette and Grooming classes," he said bitterly, showing Danny that these weren't, in fact, the highlight of his childhood. Danny snorted, not surprisingly.

"Seriously?" he asked, obviously trying to keep a lid on his amusement. "Oh, my God."

And this was why Martin didn't date. Questions led to answers which led to mockery, which led to anger, which led to shutting off. And, almost always, led to an empty bed. Not, he reminded himself quickly, that this was a date. Because dates were romantic. Hence the not.

"Shut up, Danny," was what he settled for, annoyed at himself for ever having agreed to this. "Bane of my childhood, bar my father." And why did he add that? What in Danny was it that prompted him to say these things? And now Danny was laughing. At him.

Incredible.

Martin glared his most vicious and threatening glare at Danny, who ignored it completely. Well, perhaps this was better than mocking.

Danny just kept laughing, seemingly unconscious of the looks he was beginning to draw from the other customers. Then again, he probably knew; knew the sparkle that was in his eyes as he laughed, knew that it drew people, knew how very much that smile and that laugh could evoke in people.

In Martin.

He cursed his brain for its traitorous thoughts, and looked again at Danny. Who was still laughing, though fewer hand gestures accompanied it now. He remembered the actual classes that he had attended, and couldn't help but snort at the stupidity of it all. The woman who had taught them – Martin and a few other kids whose parents hadn't been bothered to handle them over Spring Break – had been a terror right out of a fifties homemaker magazine. Only worse, because she wasn't a housewife. She was just a bored wife.

"Ever wanted to know the difference between how men hold a champagne flute and how women do?" he asked, voice cold but for the smile that lit his words. Danny stopped laughing for shock, and raised an eyebrow.

"Flute?" he asked with a snort of laughter. And of course that would be the thing he picked up on. Martin could think of a few other things that men and women held differently, but bit his tongue. That would be what people considered inappropriate conversation. And Danny was starting to laugh in earnest again. That was just great.

Martin didn't really register what he was saying before he began. Now that the memories were back, they were kind of hard to ignore.

"Or a water glass?" he asked. He barely registered that Danny laughed harder. "Or how to stand up without using your torso?" he offered, sounding like a travel agent.

"And that, Fitz, must be why you're so damned graceful," Danny managed, barely getting the words out for laughter. Martin was pretty close to sure that that hadn't been a compliment. He allowed himself a small smile.

"Ugh. Man, that sucked!" He looked again at Danny who had tears in his eyes. "It's really not that funny," he pointed out, forcing himself not to pout. Danny scoffed, probably at Martin's defensiveness.

"Don't be so juvenile," he chastised. Martin only stared at him. Juvenile? Danny was the one who had just laughed himself to tears over nothing. "It's just, while I was out getting wasted, you were learning how to hold a lobster fork," Danny cried, laughing again.

Martin rolled his eyes, but smiled. "'Lobster fork: a long, thin fork that is quite long and thin,'" Martin recited from memory. He couldn't believe he still remembered all of that so clearly. Though, there were just some things that one tended to remember. At the time, his fifteen-year-old self had reacted much as Danny was now. He had been just about on the floor, only on the inside. Outwardly, there had just been the occasional choke.

Danny, on the other hand, was about to fall off his seat.

Danny was surprised. Pleasantly, yes, but surprised nonetheless. Martin was joking about his past, a rare occurrence by any means. There was still bitterness in his voice, but Danny didn't expect that to go away any time soon.

Danny decided to push Martin a little this time, though. He'd let him get away with too much too many times before; just allowing him to shut off and not-talk, staring off into something Danny couldn't see. He wanted to gain some ground, so to speak. Some ground that had always been elusive to Danny.

Mostly, he figured, because Martin wanted it to be. But that had never stopped Danny from prodding. In a selfish and sadistic way, Danny always wanted to know more, to let Martin open up in a way he was sure Martin didn't want to and probably never had.

Still, that didn't stop him from laughing. He'd honestly tried to stop, to take Martin's glare seriously, but the image of a teenage Martin sitting perfectly still while his lungs just about exploded with suppressed laughter was too much. He couldn't picture Martin with the ability to remain calm and not blush for any extended period of time. Besides, the image of this Martin was a new one.

He'd thought vaguely about it before. Martin looked so much like a child sometimes when talking about his past – a wounded, reprimanded child – that the image wasn't hard to conjure.

And it was adorable and hilarious at the same time. That, and Danny was sure that if he weren't laughing, he'd be fighting the all too common urge to hug Martin. Danny had shuddered inwardly the first time he had felt this. This thing that wasn't lust – not at all – and was so disconcerting that it surprised even him.

It wasn't that he hadn't felt it before – he had. It was just that he had never felt it for an adult before. And of all the people he could have felt this… thing for, why the hell did it have to be Martin?

Even Sam would have been a more likely candidate than him. Sam, because this wasn't attraction so much as affection; a protectiveness and a fondness. Now, he had never been attracted to Samantha any more than he had Vivian – she was like a sister to him, and really not his type – but Martin. Martin had sent off freaking sirens in his head, reminding Danny every time he saw him just how much he wanted him.

But this wasn't want. It was possibly the closest thing to love that Danny had felt in a very, very long time.

Danny pulled himself out of his thoughts as he realized that Martin was glaring at him. And that he was still laughing. Oops. He dragged his expression back into line, regaining control of his emotions as best he could and plastered his patented smirk to his face. He knew it drove Martin nuts. In more ways than one.

"Sorry," he apologized meekly, taking a sip of his coffee. He knew full well just how unapologetic he sounded; didn't really care. "Really, it's…" Danny fumbled as the image of Martin flitted back into his head. "You!"

Martin sighed angrily. "Shut up, Danny," he huffed, about as irritated as Danny was apologetic. His smirk widened. "It was a very dark period in my life," Martin declared, melodramatic and sarcastic.

Danny snorted and calmed a little, still smirking.

"Yeah, Fitz, I bet it was," he replied, tone matching Martin's perfectly. Martin smiled at him with a rare smile; the real one.

Danny wanted very much to kiss Martin in that moment, but refrained. He wasn't stupid – or blind, for that matter. He knew that Martin had a thing for him. It was just that he didn't know what that 'thing' was; or whether Martin himself was even aware of it. Danny had slept with enough 'straight' men to know the difference between repression and outright denial.

Martin, he supposed, was somewhere smack-bang in the middle. He snorted as the words converged in his head to form a literal – and literary – middle ground: depression. Of course, Martin wasn't depressed. But he could certainly be a lot happier. And Danny, despite his best efforts and his not-very-persuasive logical side, wanted to help him with that.

But not now. Now, Danny just chuckled soundlessly once and nodded at Martin over their coffees. "Thanks, Fitz," he said quietly.

Martin was obviously confused by this statement, but nodded back.

Martin stood back a little to watch his partner leave the café, following after handing the waitress a tip to excuse his hesitation. It didn't seem to faze Danny, though, who was waiting for him with a small, unreadable smile just visible above the jacket lapels and scarf that kept his neck hidden from the cold. Martin almost wished it wouldn't be. He liked Danny's neck; had had plenty of fantasies involving said neck.

And maybe it was best that Danny kept that scarf on after all. It was only about eleven degrees; and that thought made Martin shiver. Of course, Danny being Danny, noticed.

"Y'all right?" he asked, concerned. It was about the third thing either had said since Danny had thanked him for something he wasn't even sure he'd actually done. Martin just smiled a half-smile and nodded, glancing at him to make a second of eye contact as they headed down the street, and suddenly wishing they hadn't opted to walk. Whose idea had that been?

He had the sudden and very strong urge to lace his arm through Danny's. Refrained, but only just; instead grabbing Danny's elbow to get his attention. And this hardly counted as 'touching', really. Danny was wearing at least three layers of clothing, and Martin was wearing woolen gloves. Nothing but good, friendly manliness, here.

Then Danny's eyes met his, glimmering in the near-dusk and street lights, and okay. So maybe there was something a little more than friendship, but it was still manly more-than-friendship. They were partners, after all.

A quieter part of his brain laughed at Martin, but it was quickly beaten back by other – sane – parts.

He took his hand from Danny's arm, feeling himself go red, the little voice making him uncomfortable as he glanced at the sleety pavement. "Thanks," he muttered, letting the comment be as generic as possible. For all Danny might decide, he could be thanking him for the coffee, or for last year's birthday present.

But despite Martin's sudden lack of confidence, he still knew exactly what he was thanking Danny for. He felt a little guilty, letting his ego get in the way of thanking Danny for something that he deserved to be thanked for, but there wasn't much else his brain would have allowed. Martin didn't know whether he was hoping Danny would understand or not. Both had their perks.

This time, it was Danny's hand at Martin's elbow, and Martin glanced down to see Danny's arm thread through his own. He felt his face heat up again, despite the cold, and forced himself not to yank his arm away. Martin wondered briefly if Danny had just been born in the wrong century – if he hadn't just maintained some post-Renaissance sensibilities about physical contact from a past life – but still couldn't help but tense.

Danny seemed to notice this, though, because he squeezed Martin's arm – almost hugging it – then leaned in a little closer. "You're welcome, Martin," he said sincerely, almost consideringly – no trace of the cliché 'huskiness' of dime-store romance novels – before removing his arm and placing his hand in his pocket.

Martin risked a glance to make sure that Danny wasn't offended or hurt, only to see a small smile at the corners of his mouth. The same kind of smile he had when they solved a case with a happy ending, or when Elena hugged her daughter.

Almost affectionate, a little proud, and happy. Truly happy; not the usual Danny Taylor smirk. It made Martin a little uncomfortable, but hell; what didn't?

And now the discomfort had brought out his impertinent, sarcastic side. That was always a bonus. Especially with Danny around; he tended to say things that he regretted not too long after the fact. Usually before he said them, really. And that was –

When had they gotten here?

Martin looked up to see his building, Danny waiting expectantly by the door, smile replaced by casual smirk, and Martin's sarcasm turned to bitterness as his heart beat a little harder. Mostly at himself, but really, did the man have to look so damned charming all the time?

And yes, charming it was, not pretty, or attractive, or sexy –

"Come on; it's freezing out here, man," Danny said calmly, almost amusedly. Martin really had to stop thinking.

He shoved the key into the lock and charged into the building, climbing the first few stairs without even bothering to see if Danny had followed. He figured he probably had; it would be like Danny to do just that.

It wasn't until he reached his apartment door – a few flights later – that he really acknowledged Danny's presence. He did so by stopping. His back was still turned to Danny, and if he didn't get the message, this would probably end unfavorably. For which of them, he didn't know. But knowing his temper and his knack for screwing things up, probably both of them.

When Danny spoke, his voice was nonchalant, yet the words were anything but.

"So, would it be considered bad etiquette for me to kiss you goodnight?" he asked. The words, Martin's anger and the fact that he really, really wanted to see Danny's expression right now combined to give him enough strength to spin. Only Danny was much closer then he'd thought. And now he was pinned against Martin. Pinned against Martin and a wall – between Martin and a wall – and he smelled unbelievably good. He took a step closer, almost nothing between them.

Not to mention felt unbelievably good, and his expression was about as tempting as they came. It was almost like Danny was challenging him, only… he looked almost patient. Like he was waiting for the inevitable.

Which this was definitely not.

It was, in fact, very un-inevitable. This wasn't inevitable because it had never been implied, and it would never happen. By its very definition, it was not.

The thought – and the panic that accompanied it – made Martin jerk back and fumble for his keys with a desperation he didn't know he had. He shoved the key into the lock and almost ran into his apartment, breathing like he'd just run half a mile.

"You okay?"

The voice made him jump. Damnit. He'd left the door open. Stupid, stupid, stupid, idiot! He took in a deep breath, trying to calm all sorts of issues, but didn't turn around; knew what he'd see because Danny's voice was so damned concerned. After three more breaths – and some serious quelling – he turned, but didn't meet Danny's eyes.

"Well, I'm not hypothermic, so something's going right," he snapped, not able to bite back his annoyance any longer. Because it was annoyance, not anger. Well, not really, because anger was an emotion, and he'd sworn off emotion when it came to Danny.

Was lust an emotion?

Shut up!

"Yeah, just peachy," Danny retorted, quite obviously equally as mad, and it was just wrong to look so damn cute whilst being so aggravating and so confusing. Wrong, and cruel, because now emotion wouldn't go away. It wriggled around in his stomach as Danny's eyes – his indecently and impolitely concerned eyes – watched him carefully.

This was not happening. Only it was, and now Danny wasn't letting it go. His brain reminded him that he wasn't playing Forgiver any more than Danny, but that wasn't the point. He wasn't the issue. Well, he was, really. If he hadn't been so careless, and so… so besotted.

That thought hurt almost physically.

He was attracted to Danny Taylor. Danny Taylor, who flirted like a drunk teenage girl – only better and sexier – and walked like he was having sex. Danny Taylor, who, for all Martin knew, was perfectly straight – hell, until thirty seconds ago, Martin had thought he was. Danny Taylor who was currently staring at him with a mixture of concern and anger and hurt.

His stomach did that thing again, and damnit; Martin Fitzgerald didn't do giddy. He didn't swoon, or ogle, or get incredibly distracted by sexy hands and soft lips.

Well, he never used to, and this was just wrong!

"Martin, are you listening?" Danny demanded with those pretty lips that Martin hadn't even noticed were making sound.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," he muttered, embarrassed, and crap; he was supposed to be mad at Danny. Now Danny was just looking at him like he was nuts.

Though that was probably true if he thought about it. Which was exactly why he didn't.

"What, do you have PMS, or something?" Danny asked with no small amount of incredulity. Martin was hit with the sudden urge to say something really clever like, so what if I do?, but refrained for the purposes of maintaining his dignity. And to preserve what sense of masculinity he still possessed. Probably a redundant and fruitless attempt, but there wasn't much else that he could do; not given the way Danny was staring at him. Still.

"Just… go home, Danny," Martin pleaded. Mature. He felt like he should be pouting – probably was – and huffing. Maybe stamping his foot a little; just for effect.

"Hey, man, something's eating you," Danny pointed out rather uselessly. "Why don't we get you a drink," he offered. "Got any booze lyin' around?"

Martin had to look a Danny this time, just to make sure he'd heard right. Danny's eyebrows were raised in question, anger gone from his eyes leaving concern and a little resignation.

"Great: the alcoholic offers to help me drown my sorrows in drink," he bit. "I'm in a dandy place," he added, more self-pity than annoyance or bitterness.

To his surprise, Danny just laughed, shook his head a little, and grabbed Martin's shoulder, ushering him towards his couch.

"The alcoholic knows the difference," Danny replied, heading into the kitchen and pulling open cupboards at random, "between 'drowning sorrows' and relaxing."

Martin sighed, couldn't be bothered moving from the couch, and let Danny traipse his barely-used kitchen for something he wasn't going to find.

Martin didn't want a drink. Well, he did, but not with Danny. And certainly not from Danny. For one, Danny's alcoholism made him awkward to be around when there was alcohol involved – which was mostly his own problem, but it was why he never kept alcohol at home – and for another, alcohol lowered inhibitions.

And as far as Martin-and-Danny was concerned, inhibitions were a good thing. They kept Martin from doing incredibly stupid things. Of course, they kept him from doing what he really wanted to, which quite often seemed to be the most excellent choice.

Like, say, pinning his partner against a wall.

"I never drank to relax, Martin," Danny said, suddenly reappearing in front of Martin with a glass of amber-colored something. "I drank to forget." Danny waggeld the glass in front of Martin, who looked at the drink with confusion – when had he bought a bottle of alcohol? – then back to Danny with resignation.

"I don't want a drink, Danny," he sighed as Danny sat on the coffee table in front of him, their knees just touching. He leaned in a little closer, and Martin leaned back, keeping to distance. Danny rolled his eyes and smiled.

"It's apple juice, Martin," he said softly but patronizingly, like Martin was thick not to know that. And, really, he was. This was his home, after all.

And was it a good sign that Danny was teasing him? It was better than Danny being mad at him. For the most part. There was still the small issue of being attracted to Danny – attracted; to Danny – to mull over, but for now, he was okay to just sit on the couch.

He took the juice from Danny, blushing a little when he smirked at him, wondering – not for the first time – what Danny was thinking when he did that. Martin had narrowed it down to two things: either Martin was even more of a dork than he thought and Danny was making fun of him, or he was undressing him with his mind.

The latter was mostly the result of late nights, wishful thinking and an overactive imagination. But the prior was just a bit too realistic. Still, though, if Danny were making fun of him in his head, why not just say whatever he was thinking? He spent most of his free time making fun of Martin anyway – a fact which was both thrilling and annoying – so he was either thinking something unredeemably cruel, or plotting his next attack.

Which, Martin hoped, didn't happen anywhere near a wall.

He felt movement, and looked up from the juice he'd apparently been staring at – or, rather, into – to see Danny's considering expression as he moved to sit next to Martin on the couch. How many times his subconscious had pinned Danny to this couch, he couldn't count, but he reminded himself that this was real Danny. The Danny who offered drinks and brought apple juice. Who was a friend.

Who was still staring at him.

This seemed to be a recurring theme tonight.

Martin wished it wouldn't be; it was getting very difficult to concentrate. Thankfully, Danny's voice broke his thoughts.

"No alcohol." Martin wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement, so he just shook his head.

"Nope," he sighed. He offered Danny a smile, glad to be falling back into the very familiar rhythm of their friendship. "My apartment is Danny-safe." Even if said rhythm did tend to end with a blushing Martin and a smirk-slash-eyebrow-quirk from Danny. It was familiar, and that was safe – attraction or not.

"Mm," Danny agreed, and Martin wasn't sure what to make of that. Wasn't sure whether there was anything to be made. "So, you'll let me buy you dinner?"

Martin turned to him, a little afraid, but on seeing Danny's expression – all offer, no subtext – he shook his head and laughed quietly.

"As long as I don't have to move," he agreed. Martin's smile grew into a grin when Danny laughed, and he pulled his cell phone out of the coat he'd forgotten he was wearing. "Chinese place is number eight, Italian place number nine," he told Danny, handing him the phone. Danny just stared.

"You have takeout… on speed-dial?" he asked incredulously.

"Jealous?" Martin teased, a smirk of his own appearing. Danny snorted.

"That, Martin Fitzgerald, is the absolute height of laziness," he said, sounding amazed and disgusted. It was Martin's turn to snort.

"What, you cook a meal every time you get home from a case as long as this one?" he asked, disbelieving. There was no way. They'd been at work for at least thirty hours with almost no sleep, and only a little more food. The combination usually left one hungry as anything, but too tired to actually do anything about it. Cooking? Not likely.

"I reheat," Danny said flippantly. "That's what a stove is for, Fitz. I make enough food on a free weekend to keep me the rest of the week." He shrugged and leaned back against the arm of Martin's couch, kicking off his shoes and closing his eyes momentarily.

Martin smiled, knowing that it was moments like these that he loved. These moments that were just banter and ease; that were calm and unhurried; that never lasted long. And maybe Martin had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't really attracted to Danny, after all. Maybe it was just this that confused him. The comfort he felt while he was with Danny, the ease they were at almost constantly.

He'd never really had a close friend – a best friend – before. Maybe he was just confusing friendship and closeness with love and intimacy.

Martin had to concentrate on getting his coat and suit jacket off to keep his eyes off Danny. Sprawled-on-his-couch Danny.

And he'd been going so well for a few minutes there.

"Honestly?" Martin asked, trying to keep his brain otherwise occupied. It wasn't working.

"No, I believe they were truly invented to make suicide more poetic, but whatever works, works, right?" he said, a smirk gracing his lips again. Martin rolled his eyes and Danny grinned. "I find cooking kind of therapeutic, so it isn't like it's a chore. Kind of nice after a long case and a good thirty hours of sleeping it off," he joked, making Martin chuckle.

Less at Danny's joke, though, and more at the image of Danny in the kitchen, floral apron and all. Then the apron was all, and Martin shut that image out with a thud that mirrored the sound of his clothes hitting the coffee table in front of him.

"So, Chinese or Italian?" he asked. Danny hm­-ed then flipped open the phone and hit a button with a bewildered look – something like Martin imagined a published skeptic might look like whilst patting the Loch Ness Monster.

"Chinese," Danny said definitively, though rather redundantly as he had already hit Call. By the time Danny hung up – Martin could have sworn he'd been flirting with the other end of the phone call – Martin had settled relatively comfortably into the couch, shoes somewhere amongst Danny's on the floor.

They were both almost asleep when the intercom buzzed. The silence that had descended had eventually been comfortable enough that they had both just let the exhaustion of the past few days take them. Martin's feet were propped on the coffee table, ankles crossed, his back wedged into one corner of the couch, elbow resting on the arm, head against the back.

Danny was spread similarly in his own side of the couch, only when the buzzer went off, he jerked upwards and felt a pain shoot momentarily up his calf. He reminded himself that sitting on his feet was a very bad habit; one he should have grown out of by now. Which, usually, he remembered; had to because he wasn't a kid anymore, and there were usually some very physical reminders of that when he woke up.

The intercom buzzed again, and he moved quickly to the door as Martin stirred, grunting. That was something he really wished he could see. Stupid as it was to want to see Martin wake up, he wanted it almost as much as he wanted to see Martin before he went to sleep. In a non crash-on-his-couch situation.

God, he was even using euphemisms in his head, now.

"Food," the intercom informed him boredly. Danny pushed the button. He shook himself and waited by the door while Martin sighed and pushed himself further into the couch. Much like he had pushed Danny into the wall outside.

And this, he had to stop thinking about. It wasn't healthy. It had been an accident.

Only it hadn't. Maybe at first, he supposed; running into Danny probably hadn't been Martin's original game-plan. But after he had, he hadn't moved. Well that wasn't true; he had, only in the wrong – the very, very, unprofessionally wrong – direction.

Danny closed his eyes as he remembered that feeling – the heat, muscle and flesh of Martin's body, even through clothes – and almost yelped when there was a knock at the door.

Pulling himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, he opened the door to a skinny kid – probably about nineteen – carrying two bags of white boxes and looking as bored as he'd sounded over the intercom.

"Here's your food, man," he grunted, eyes half-closed, and Danny wondered if the kid was high. "You're not Fitzgerald," the kid muttered suddenly, almost accusingly. Danny frowned. How often did Martin get takeout? He raised an eyebrow at the kid, smirking.

"No, no I'm not," he said a little flirtatiously, deciding that he would try to rile the kid. It wasn't nearly as fun as annoying Martin, but it was something. He could always annoy Martin later, anyway. And as unfair as it was to pick on this kid, the fact that he was probably-high made it seem a little less cruel.

Danny handed the boy some money, taking the bags and leaning seductively against the door. The kid's eyes widened, almost to normal size.

"You looking for him, honey?" he asked, basically purring at the kid. Who now looked slightly uncomfortable as things seemed to dawn on him. Danny leaned in closer, shoulder and head against the doorframe, and winked. "He's in the bedroom if you wanna come in," Danny replied, a small part of him wishing that was true.

This time, though, the kid actually choked, his eyes widening, and oh, yeah. He was high. But apparently not high enough to take Danny's offer – it surprised Danny that he hadn't thought about what he'd have done if the kid had actually taken his offer. The boy muttered something about deliveries and almost ran down the hall.

Danny snorted a laugh as he moved back into the lounge room, only to find a still-sleeping Martin. He was both glad and disappointed that Martin hadn't heard his exchange with the kid. That could have been amusing.

Instead, he unpacked the boxes onto the coffee table before shaking Martin's shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Fitz," he called, sighing when he got no response, but taking a second just to stare at him. He really was an attractive man. Not that Danny really needed to be informed of that – he was reminded every time he looked at him. But Danny had never really seen him asleep before. Close to it, yes; exhausted to the brink of collapse, or catching a few minutes of shut-eye with his head on his desk. Or – and it hurt to think about it – almost dead.

But asleep, comfortable, in his own home, no distractions… Danny desperately wanted to kiss him awake. He really only had to lean forward a few inches, a foot, maybe.

"Danny?"

He blinked, coughed, then smirked. He prided himself on such quick recoveries, but he was still a little shocked that he'd gotten so carried away that he'd entirely missed Martin waking up.

"Danny." This time it was a statement, and Danny followed Martin's slightly amused line of sight to his hand, which still rested on his shoulder. He squeezed his shoulder once, lightly, before removing it entirely.

"Food's here," he said, his voice more cheery than he'd felt since they'd left the café. "You're on first name basis with the delivery kid?" he asked as Martin perked up and grabbed a box and a pair of chopsticks. Danny didn't bother hiding his amusement, nor mentioning that the kid hadn't technically used his first name. But that wasn't really the point.

Martin flushed red as he began stuffing food into his mouth. He just glared at Danny – as well as he could with a mouthful of food – as he smirked. And man, did he look cute like that. Which was just plain annoying. There had to be a good way to punish him for that.

Danny leaned forward, seriously invading Martin's personal space – like it was actually an issue – and watched as Martin's expression went from mock-anger to cynical curiosity to total terror. At the last second, he leaned in a different direction to stick his chopsticks into the container Martin was holding. He could just about feel Martin relax.

Danny clawed at something he thought was mushroom with his chopsticks. "We have to talk, Martin," he said, offhand as if it wasn't a conversation bound to forever change their relationship. Or destroy it. Which he supposed would probably count as 'change', so moot point. But really, this wasn't punishment at all; this was inevitability. There had always been something between them, and it was bound to change. Or combust.

There were a few seconds as Martin seemed to think it over, getting in a few mouthfuls of noodle in the interim. "Yeah," he said eventually, with a finality that left only silence.

So what do you think? Another chapter?

Giorgia