|Fanfic » TV Shows » Without A Trace » The Occasional Omission |
|By Brittany "Thespis" Frederick |
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The Occasional Omission
Author: Brittany "Thespis" Frederick
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-ep for "He Saw, She Saw": Martin tries to remain optimistic. 155 words.
Spoilers: He Saw, She Saw
Disclaimer: Without A Trace is not mine. It's the property of CBS and its production company and creators and so forth. However, this fic and all original content in it IS mine, and if you wish to repost it, please let me know at AgentThespis@msn.com, and I'll gladly let you. I also want to thank the phenomenal team at WTA, especially the delightful Eric Close, for a show that got me hooked from day one.
The sound of a carton of ice cream hitting Martin's desk echoed. He arched an eyebrow and half-glared.
"I know I didn't tell you I'm lactose intolerant," he yelled after Danny.
"It's in your file. Give it to your girlfriend."
"You mean the one I don't have?" Martin said, hefting the still-cold French vanilla. He liked to reflect on his cases, and Muller was freaking him out. Danny had just hit it on the head.
His work was his mistress. This was at moments ultimately unfulfilling. Reading the four ingredients did him in, thinking of his ex always eating the stuff after a shift and taunting him with it. That was something not in his file.
Martin snickered and cleared space off his desk, finding his dairy pills, spinning in the chair again, trying to keep a wicked smile off his face.
"Hey, Danny," he called.
"Yeah?"
"You know where I can find a spoon?"
The Occasional Omission
Author: Brittany "Thespis" Frederick
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-ep for "He Saw, She Saw": Martin tries to remain optimistic. 155 words.
Spoilers: He Saw, She Saw
Disclaimer: Without A Trace is not mine. It's the property of CBS and its production company and creators and so forth. However, this fic and all original content in it IS mine, and if you wish to repost it, please let me know at AgentThespis@msn.com, and I'll gladly let you. I also want to thank the phenomenal team at WTA, especially the delightful Eric Close, for a show that got me hooked from day one.
The sound of a carton of ice cream hitting Martin's desk echoed. He arched an eyebrow and half-glared.
"I know I didn't tell you I'm lactose intolerant," he yelled after Danny.
"It's in your file. Give it to your girlfriend."
"You mean the one I don't have?" Martin said, hefting the still-cold French vanilla. He liked to reflect on his cases, and Muller was freaking him out. Danny had just hit it on the head.
His work was his mistress. This was at moments ultimately unfulfilling. Reading the four ingredients did him in, thinking of his ex always eating the stuff after a shift and taunting him with it. That was something not in his file.
Martin snickered and cleared space off his desk, finding his dairy pills, spinning in the chair again, trying to keep a wicked smile off his face.
"Hey, Danny," he called.
"Yeah?"
"You know where I can find a spoon?"