All in the Eyes
Fandom: CSI:NY
Author: Kimmychu
Rating: FRT
Pairing: Danny/Flack friendship, but can also be seen as slash
Content Warning: Nothing much.
Spoilers: Only for episode 4x13, All in the Family.
Summary: 'He likes it here, this place with no pain, no heartache and no death. No regrets. Maybe this is where people go when their time's up. He likes it here a lot.' Danny/Flack friendship.
Disclaimer: Don't you know? Danny and Flack belong to each other! Who is this CBS you're talking about?
( Oooo …... oooO )
Author's Notes: I'll just say the issue highlighted in the story is something I never considered writing until episode 4x13. Danny saying what he did to Flack at the end of the episode, especially the way he said it … it finally inspired me to tackle a particular issue I've noticed is rather prevalent in fan fiction. Wanted to put my own spin on it. As always, thank you for reading and for your reviews!
( Oooo …... oooO )
There's a crack in his ceiling.
It's a wriggly, snake-like thing, all angles and roots sprouting from the base of the ceiling light. He speculates on how the prescient rupture of peeling paint and exposed wood came to be there but he's distracted by the tinkling sound of water droplets striking porcelain.
He blinks. He's lying on something very chilly. It's not his bed, that's for sure, unless he decided to exchange soft, warm cloth with unyielding, flat tiles.
He blinks again.
Tiles. Only the floor of his bathroom is tiled.
What's he doing lying on the bathroom floor?
He commands his fingers to twitch. He isn't anxious when he realizes he can't move at all, which is strange in itself because he ought to be worried he can't move. What sort of person doesn't panic after waking up and finding out they're paralyzed? And how's he going to work at the labs and carry out his experiments and solve his cases if he can't move?
Uh oh. He hopes Mac isn't going to get mad at him again.
His lips curl into a hint of a sneer.
Heh, who's he trying to kid? Mac letting him off the hook this time will be after hell freezes over.
He didn't even tell Mac he was skipping out on work today. He's already messed up so many fucking times, and really, now that he considers it, what's another imprudent act stamped on his karakul-black record?
Hey, Mac, ya think I did good today by stopping a bereft mother from killing the asshole who caused her son to die? When it's MY fault her son's dead?
There's something wet and warm trickling along his unresponsive forearms and wrists. There's something wet upon his face too, and a part of him is pissed off that he can't wipe it away. Well, whatever it is, at least it's easing the glare of the bathroom's ceiling light and turning it a bearable haziness.
He's sleepy. Very sleepy. The floor's not feeling so bad any more.
He wonders what Flack will think of his new sleeping arrangements, snoozing on the bathroom floor instead of his bed. He wonders where Flack is now, and in a heartbeat, he's thinking about the way Flack had glowered at him during their initial confrontation outside one of Ollie Barnes' hangouts, the way Flack got right into his face and told him straight what was what.
The way Flack was there with him, for him the whole time, even when the man wasn't physically there.
His eyelids flutter. His eyes are searing. He's thinking about the moment he trudged into Flack's precinct with a scared, compliant Rikki, the moment he glanced through the doors and saw Angell standing in front of Flack's desk.
Saw the way Flack looked at her and the way she looked at him.
He didn't give a damn Flack was staring at him with those big blue eyes of his the instant Flack noticed his presence. He couldn't allow himself to give a damn. He'd recognized the look that passed between the two homicide detectives although his brain wouldn't let him fully accept it. He wanted to get the hell out of there. Pronto.
It was just his luck Flack wouldn't let him go without a final word. He was so mad then, mad at himself, mad at Flack for being right all the time, for securing him to the right track when he didn't wish to be. For looking at Angell that way.
He doesn't quite recollect what he said to Flack. What Flack said in return, however, he'll always keep that to heart.
You're my friend, Danny. Makes it my business.
Flack's eyes had been so wide, brimming with a light he knows has been there for a long, long time, a light he sees every time he gazes into them. And like the look between Flack and Angell, it's something he's terrified to the bones of acknowledging.
He can't. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve something that good.
He hopes Angell will appreciate it much more than he ever did.
More moisture is painting his cheeks and the sides of his face. His eyes flicker shut.
I'm sorry, Don. I didn't mean what I said. I won't disappoint you again.
The coldness recedes. The sensations of dampness diminishes to nothing. It's quiet and peaceful now, dark and numb and liberating and here he doesn't see Ruben riding on his bicycle around the corner of a busy street, he doesn't see Ruben glancing back at him for one last time, appearing so alive and well and unharmed. He doesn't see Ruben collapsed on the grimy ground of a narrow alley, an empty, grey husk of what was once a feisty ten-year-old boy who hoped to become a doctor so he could save people and make the world a better place.
He likes it here, this place with no pain, no heartache and no death. No regrets. Maybe this is where people go when their time's up. He likes it here a lot.
Why hadn't he come here earlier?
For an eon, he hears and sees and feels nothing.
Then, someone is touching his face.
"Danny?"
This someone's talking to him too, in a deep, comforting voice.
"Danny, please, open your eyes. Danny."
The universe returns to him in a blast of blinding illumination that's shielded seconds later by a fuzzy, humanoid shape. He opens his eyes wider and it dawns on him that he must be dead and drifting in the content afterlife somewhere and whoever's gazing down at him must be … an angel.
He's never seen any human being on earth bearing such handsomeness and purity.
He tries his best to smile at the angel. He likes the angel's fervent, loving strokes upon his cheek. This angel has such beautiful blue eyes and such thick, dark hair. Mommy always did say angels are elegant, male beings who'll win your soul with just one look.
"Thank God, thank God."
That's weird. Mommy didn't mention anything about angels crying.
She sure didn't mention anything about any angel appearing so much like a devoted homicide detective friend of his either.
"Stay with me, okay? Stay with me, Danny, I'm here, stay with me …"
Blazing light fills his sight once more. No, no, his angel's moving away, leaving him on his own like everyone else -
Don't leave me, please.
He's uncertain if he said that out loud. He can barely blink, much less open his frozen lips.
"Get an ambulance here right now! I don't CARE what the hell you gotta do, get it here NOW!"
Angels crying, he doesn't remember that. Angels capable of great rage, that he remembers. If he isn't already in love with this one, he'd be quite frightened of the angel's booming, anger-suffused voice.
"Five minutes, five fuckin' minutes, shit!"
Did Mommy ever tell him angels curse a streak in a New York accent as well?
He doesn't recall that either.
The angel has come back into view.
"Why did ya do this to yourself, Danny? Why'd you do this? Huh? Ya coulda come to me, you know that."
Something within him aches deeply at the tears rolling down the angel's stunning face. The droplets of sorrow aren't worthy of embellishing such perfection.
He hears someone let out a muffled moan from a distance.
"Danny? Can ya talk, Danny? C'mon, talk to me. Stay with me."
His angel's firm body is warm and soothing. He never knew angels can smell so good, or have such smooth, pale skin and such sturdy, reassuring arms that embrace him and keep the shadows at bay. Despite the tingling pain gradually making itself known from his elbows to his hands, his lips curve up in a tiny smile.
Geez, and here he thought angels would have better tastes in ties.
"It wasn't your fault, Danny. I mean it. Ya gotta stop blamin' yerself for Ruben's death."
He stares up at the angel's mien, unable to glance away, unwilling to even if he could. It figures the angel would know about Ruben and the cold, harsh truth that it's his fault Ruben's dead at ten.
"I know you've been torn up 'bout this, I know you've been thinkin' the blame's all on you for it but sometimes things are outta our control, sometimes terrible things just happen no matter what ya do and - ya gotta stop blamin' yerself, Danny."
Listening to his angel's voice turning so hoarse and raspy intensifies the ache in his chest, overwhelms the throbbing along his arms. Why is this angel caring so much for him? Why is this heavenly being wasting precious time on a lost cause like himself?
He doesn't deserve this mercy, this forgiveness.
"You die, and I'm gonna blame myself for it for the rest a' my life, ya hear me, Danny? I mean it, I will, don't you think I won't!"
His eyelids flutter for an instant. He's feeling sleepy again. He's feeling guilty for putting this faultless angel into such a spot. He's confused that this angel cherishes his existence to such an extent. Why would anyone miss him after he's gone?
All he touches turns to dust. Everybody he loves always leaves or dies in the end.
The angel is still weeping, running fingers through his hair, down his face.
"If you die, who's gonna play hoops with me on Saturdays?" his blue-eyed angel whispers. "Who's gonna ride with me in my car and make the mornin' worthwhile? Who's gonna laugh at my stupid ties and my jokes? Who's gonna tackle the perps with me like you do, huh?"
Wait … he's remembering something else Mommy said about angels.
Angels can never die. They're immortal.
And if an angel is immortal, doesn't that mean he'll never end up killing this angel holding him tight?
Doesn't it mean there's someone who'll never abandon him after all? Someone who'll be there for him no matter what transpires?
"I don't know what I'll do without you, Danny. You're my friend … I love you. I always have."
Abruptly, he yearns with a terrible passion to touch the angel's wet face, to wipe away the tears there and trace a smile onto those dark pink lips. It's too good to be true, that this magnificent being loves him when no one else does. What could he have done in his past to earn this?
He does not know.
All he knows is that this angel loves him, this angel who appears and sounds so much like the noble man whom he ungratefully treated like dirt today. This angel who loves him. Needs him.
And if he's still needed, it can't be his time to die yet, can it?
"You sure that's his blood type?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Huh, he's no longer lying on his bathroom floor. He's reclined on something akin to a bed and it's … moving. No, everything around him is moving. He hears the drone of … an engine. Like that of a large vehicle travelling on a road at high speed.
"The cuts on his forearms are deep but he'll be okay. You did a good job of bandaging them, detective."
He opens his eyes, slowly turns his head to the side. The man he sees sitting next to him is an utter stranger in a dark blue uniform, an insignia of a snake winding around a staff stitched on the upper sleeves.
It's not the angel who loves him.
His heart becomes a block of ice. He is instantly struggling upright, his breaths coming out as rapid pants, and he thrashes against the hands on his chest and shoulders pressing him down.
No … no, nononoNO, where did the angel go, where did his angel GO -
"Sshhh, Danny, Danny, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here, sshh …"
He immediately calms down. The angel's here. The angel's right here with him, shifting closer to his side, rubbing his upper arms in a soothing manner.
"You're okay now. You're gonna be okay."
The angel never left him. Not even once.
"You can switch places with me. I can still monitor him from there."
"Thanks."
He sends a small smile up to his dark-haired angel who's sitting at the head of whatever he's resting on and gazing down at him.
Is this angel his now?
Mommy said something about this too, something about an angel belonging to someone only when the angel's name is known …
What is this angel's name?
He has to know.
"We're in an ambulance on the way to the hospital," the angel explains to him in a rumbling, kind voice. "You blacked out on me for a while there."
His brow furrows in a frustrated frown. Wait a minute, he knows this angel's name, and if he knows this angel's name, then this angel will belong to him forever -
"Ya scared me, ya know that?"
He watches those dark pink lips arch up in a tender, relieved smile and suddenly, suddenly the significant, earth-shattering name soars to the forefront of his thoughts and he returns his angel's smile, stretching out a trembling hand that's swiftly gripped in a large, calloused one.
"Don," he whispers, curling his fingers around long, familiar ones.
"Yeah, it's me, Danny. It's Don," Flack says, squeezing his hand. "I'm here."
And with that, as he's wheeled on a stretcher into the emergency room of the hospital, with Flack at his side, Danny knows in all certainty that everything's going to be alright. At last.
Fin.