What Love Is

Disclaimer: This may surprise some of you, but I don't own Without a Trace.

Author's Note: This is my very first Without A Trace story, and second story published, and I didn't even have it edited, so consider yourself warned. The "Eyewitness" thing at the beginning of each chapter doesn't mean the character saw a crime; it's just my fancy way of saying "POV." Oh, and don't ask me why, but Elana doesn't exist in this reality. I just didn't write her in. Maybe she's on vacation…

Chapter One: Breathe

Eyewitness: Danny Taylor

The case was solved. Twelve-year-old Amelia Casanova was safely at home with her family and her captor was in custody. At 5:00 PM on a Friday evening, there was no picture up on the white board: a rarity for us.

It was Viv's idea to go out to a bar and celebrate. Before she even finished her sentence, we grabbed our coats and headed out. Jack waved us off from behind a pile of paperwork, because for some reason known only to him and his standard of business ethics, he doesn't fraternize with us underlings.

We can't have been here in our booth for more than twenty minutes by now, and I'm the only sober one remaining, with Sam sipping at her martini with vigor, Viv delighting in her second glass of wine, Martin downing shots possibly as some show of manly bravado, and me satisfied with my club soda.

Sam is entertaining us with some anecdote, probably pertaining to our previous case, but I find it impossible to pay attention. My mind is on Martin, as he takes yet another shot and moves his eyes on me. If it were anyone else, I might take it as a drinking challenge, but Martin wouldn't do that…Unless he's really drunk. No, his eyes are still focusing (on me), so he's still lucid. In fact, with each ounce of alcohol introduced to his bloodstream, he seems to look at me more.

"Are you two having a staring contest or something?" It's at Sam's words that I realize I'm staring back. That's right, in a bar full of pretty women to ogle, I'm staring at Martin. If I'm not careful, I just might out myself.

Before I can even respond, Sam laughs it off with, "Men…" and orders another martini.

Whew, dodged that bullet. If my co-workers ever found out my true thoughts toward Martin, I'd probably find myself in some boring desk-job out in Wyoming. No offense to the state, I just don't understand a place that doesn't have fifteen restaurants within walking distance at all times.

"Heh…staring contest…" Martin seems just to get the joke.

Viv immediately becomes a mother, "Okay, Honey, I think four is your limit."

"You've been counting?" Martin sounds more impressed than incredulous.

"The glasses are still in front of you."

Martin looks down at the table, and, sure enough, four little glasses stare back at him. He points to Viv, "Four is my limit."

"I'll remember that."

A roar of cheering erupts from the bar. I look up and see a ballgame is on. I can tell the Mets are playing, so I try to see the score. The Mets are losing. I vow not to look back at the screen again.

Digital ringing fills the .5 proof air of their booth until Viv answers her cell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Martin is watching me again, but I refuse to make eye-contact, not wanting another "staring contest" to happen right before Sam's observant eyes.

"I'll see you soon, then. Bye," Viv hangs up with a smile on her face, "Looks like I'm getting taken out to dinner."

"Awe, you're leaving us?" Sam puts on her best pout.

"Yep, sorry guys. Café Fiorello calls." She's beaming now.

Martin maneuvers himself from the bench to let her out, "Have a nice time, Viv."

She hugs him good-bye, "Thank you." As she turns to me, her eyes become stern. "Watch him," she kids. I think…

"I guess I should be going, too. I haven't slept in…" Sam looks at her watch, "38 hours."

This inspires me to look at my watch, "All right, the night is officially over at 5:30. We are lame." The comment is ignored by all, which I'm used to by now.

"Share a cab?" Sam offers Viv as we make our way out the front door. Viv nods her agreement, then looks to Martin and me.

Martin looks up to the slowly darkening sky and breathes in the evening air, "I think I'll walk."

Sam cocks an eyebrow, "To Queens?"

"It's just over the bridge."

Viv gives me a familiar look, and I hold my hands in the air in mock surrender, "I know, I know! Watch him. Baby-sit Drunky."

Martin laughs, for some odd reason humored by my tease. I would usually expect a rolling of the eyes or some quip in response, but laughter is nice.

As Sam and Viv slide into their cab, I put my arm around Martin's shoulders in the least sexual manner that I can think of, "Which way, Fitzy?"

"East," Martin indicates with a point of the finger, and we walk.

'Just over the bridge' translates into a two-and-a-half-hour travelling experience. Who does that to themselves? Intentionally?

I've never been so glad to hear the words, "This is it" as we reach his building. I mean, it has been nice being with Martin the whole time, but we were together in silence. The whole journey, he seemed to be mulling over something in his mind.

"Let's get you tucked in," I guide him to the elevators, well aware that he, a resident, can find them, but putting my arm on his shoulders is a small pleasure I just can't deny myself.

As the elevator doors close, Martin leans his face into my neck. Chills flash throughout my body as his small exhales puff against my collar. My inability to remain silent butts in, and I blurt out, "Wow, you sure drank a lot tonight."

Martin isn't struck by the reality of his position like I had believed he would be. Instead, he remains against my neck, and whispers, "I was trying to work up the courage."

"Courage to do what?" Am I seriously making small talk here? I have Martin lying against me, and I'm chatting?

Martin nuzzles under my chin, "To ask you to stay the night."

I can't breathe. The request came out of NOWHERE! How long has he felt this way? Does he mean what I think he means? He has to mean what I think he means; he's nuzzling me, for god's sake. Did he really say it? Am I just imagining this? No, he said it. He has to have said it. I heard it. Right? What does this mean? Wait, Martin's gay? Why didn't I notice? I mean, I'm a detective-

"Please?" Martin's pulling me out the elevator doors. When did they open?

Breathe.

We're at his door, and he's unlocking it.

Breathe.

We're walking inside.

Breathe.

Martin shuts the door and locks it. He takes my two hands in his and gazes into my eyes, "Stay?"

"Martin, you're really drunk."

He takes a step closer, "I want this."

I can't take advantage. He's obviously inebriated. "How about you sleep off the alcohol and we'll resume this conversation when you're sober?" I walk him deeper into his apartment, assuming I'll come across his bedroom at some point, where I'll put him to bed and leave. Yes, leave, like a responsible adult.

We come up to his bedroom door, and as I open it, he corners me by the frame. "Danny…" there is need in his voice, and my whole body responds of its own accord.

I grab both of his wrists and bring them far from his body, "Touch your nose."

"…What?"

"Field sobriety test. Come on, I want to make sure your able to actually give consent here."

There's that eye-roll I know and love, but he submits, and brings both index fingers to the tip of his nose without a problem.

I smile and hold up my hand, "How many fingers?"

"Three," he responds correctly, "And you're going to kill the mood."

"You're more important than the mood."

"Mood saved," Martin leans in.

Our noses touch. My resistance diminishes, and I bring my lips to his. Our kiss starts out gentle, timid even, but we tentatively open our mouths, and our tongues meet, and suddenly we are walking toward the bed. Our knees hit the mattress, and we fall upon the soft comforter, our lips never separating.

A soft moan comes somewhere from deep inside Martin, and I've never heard anything sexier. Pulling back to breathe, I gaze upon Martin's face. A mixture of alcohol and passion flushes his complexion. His kiss-swollen lips are deep red as small pants pass through. His blue eyes are dark and staring back into my own.

"Want you," he whispers and he pulls me on top of him. His hands go to my tie as nimble fingers work with the knot then toss the garment to the ground.

Deciding that Martin has been making some pretty good decisions lately, I follow suit, and soon we are throwing our jackets as far away from our bodies as we can and starting in on the buttons of each other's shirts. Our movements become frantic, and nimble fingers become clumsy claws. I think I hear one of our shirts ripping, but we toss them away without care.

Looking down at Martin's exposed flesh, it dawns on me that I have never seen it before. That is a real shame, because all the soft skin and firm muscles make a sight to see. Leaning down, I brush my lips across the flesh just below Martin's throat, and he moans, pressing his chest into my mouth.

Encouraged, I continue my exploration, bringing my hands up to rub against the pert nubs as my lips trail down towards his stomach. As I reach his bellybutton, my tongue dives in, and Martin lets out a yelp of pleasure as his hips thrust into me.

I reach my hands down to Martin's pants and unfasten the clasp, then I undo the zipper. Glancing back up to Martin's face, I see him staring intently at my hands, softly panting. Making a show of it, I pull off his shoes and socks, drop them on the floor, then slowly peel his pants from his long legs. I pass them over his feet, then drop them on the floor. Leaning forward, I place a kiss on the inside of Martin's thigh. He rewards me with a quick gasp.

I feel a tug on my shoulder as Martin pulls my face up to his own. He plants his lips against mine and I feel him undoing my pants in turn. Not wanting him to separate from our kiss, I aid Martin in the pants-removal, and soon we are clad only in thin boxer shorts.

Sitting back in between Martin's legs, I admire the view of flush, slick skin. I bend low and plant kisses on his firm stomach as I remove his remaining garment. Dropping the item on the floor, I brush my lips across his inner thigh, slowly inching toward Martin's arousal. Sometimes, I can't help but tease.

Martin has different plans, as he proves when he grasps my shoulders again and brings my face to his in a passionate kiss. In one swift movement, he flips us over, and, landing on top, immediately takes control. As soon as he begins tugging my waistband down, I'm happy to let him take over.

Flinging the clothing somewhere into the distance, Martin settles down on top of me. My eyes roll back into my head as the incredible feeling of hard flesh against hard flesh overrides my senses. With a low moan, Martin drops his face onto my shoulder and begins thrusting his hips against mine, and we immediately find a perfect rhythm.

I force my mind not to drift off into oblivion and focus on the soft, breathy sounds Martin is making deep in his throat. As arousing as they are, I also find them endearing. They are truly sweet, in a way. Low, constant moans with the occasional whimper mixed in come together to be something quite precious. Turning my head, I place a soft kiss against his hair.

Martin's noises turn into soft cries, and we are both pushed over the edge. After a few more frantic thrusts, we're splashing against each other.

Exhausted, Martin collapses on top of me, gasping for breath. I bring my arms around the heated flesh on top of me and hold him close, reveling in his small shudders.

As Martin's breaths even out, the mess between us starts to present itself as uncomfortable. Rubbing his back in soothing circles, I whisper, "Martin?"

He stirs, "Hmm?"

"Shower?"

"Hmm?"

I enunciate, "Shower."

"Oh…That means getting up."

I chuckle, "Yes, Martin, it does."

He whines, and I have never found the act so adorable.

I plant another kiss in his hair, starting to really enjoy the practice, "Come on."

He peels his body from mine and we stumble to the bathroom. Martin turns the spray on hot, and as soon as the water reaches the temperature, we step underneath. All evidence of our previous activity is quickly rinsed away, and I almost mourn it. Whatever just happened between Martin and me, whether it was the start of something long-term or just a one-time incident, I want to retain every detail.

Martin shuts off the water, bringing me back to the here-and-now. He steps over to me and wraps his arms around my waist. Nuzzling his face into my jaw, he whispers, "I think the alcohol has officially dissipated from my body. If I ask you to stay the night, can you just say 'yes'?"

I smile and return the embrace, "Yes."

We stand like that, holding each other, for a long time. Then, without even bothering to towel dry, we collapse back into bed. With out bodies still intertwined, we fall asleep. Together.