Disclaimer: I don't own anything WAT-related, not even a red push pin!

Each of us angels

Summary: Can Danny Taylor ever admit that he needs someone? Danny-centric.

"We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." - Titus Lucretius Carus

anmodo, thank you very much for a kind and thoughtful review. The very reason I write about Danny is because we have been told nothing of his thoughts, his surroundings, his daily struggles, and his relationships. So, I decided to invent them. :)

Danny woke up in a foul mood. It seemed to be a common way to wake up for him lately. It was nothing specific, nothing he could put into words, but the dissatisfaction would creep in, and the mood would announce itself in the morning with a stronger than usual need for a drink. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but Danny was afraid. He was afraid of the mood, afraid of the need, and afraid of the ever more taxing efforts it would take to combat this. Two evenings a week spent at AA meetings, and he was beginning to wonder if it has become so comfortable as to no longer be effective.

A hot shower and a lethal cup of coffee later, and the mood dissipated somewhat. Danny even found it in himself to tickle behind Oscar's ear in passing. It was hard to tell, but Danny thought he saw Oscar roll his eyes. For the first time in a while Danny laughed.

He was still chuckling when he walked out of the apartment, letting Oscar slip past him. He locked his doors and turned around, and that's when he saw the girl.

The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. It was one of those undefinable colors that appear almost brown, but turn into all shades of gold once the light hits it. She sat on the floor by the door opposite to Danny's, surrounded by a half dozen boxes, some of which have ripped open.

She lifted her head and looked Danny up and down in a deliberate way that would have been rude, if she didn't look quite so helpless on that floor among her scattered possessions.

"Nice cat," was the first thing she said.

As a return compliment, Oscar gave an aggravated and noncommittal hiss.

"And friendly, too," was the girl's next observation.

"He is just protective of his floor. It is by rights his. Well, his and little Stevie Kaufman's form number 78 other there. He claimed it long ago to race his tricycle up and down the hall. Stevie and Oscar here share custody. And you seem to have occupied a great deal of their territory. If you think Oscar's unfriendly, wait until you hear Stivie wail."

Danny realized he was bubbling, and he couldn't even understand why. It was, perhaps, the way she kept staring at him: very intently, with an unreadable expression on her face.

A short pause ensued, then Danny decided to end it.

"Do you need some help with those?" He pointed at the boxes.

She continued to look at him contemplatively.

"I could use some help, yes, but I fear for your spiffy coat. It could get wrinckled."

She realized it was a wrong thing to say immediately, even though she only meant it as a lighthearted joke.

Danny's defences went up at the mention of his clothes. Ever since his castoff childhood days, Danny made it a special point to always have nice clothes. Not the height-of-fashion, metrosexual, I-know-my-labels kind of nice clothes, but the good quality, excellent fit kind that was denied him during his early years. A very young Danny had wowed that, once independent, he would never wear secondhand, ill-fitting, faded things that made him a source of cruel jokes during his school years. And he stuck to that basic tenet throughout his adult life. But the memory still smarted a little, and his first reaction was that of anger.

However, Danny decided to shrug this off. The girl couldn't have possibly known, and, in any case, she was stating that the coat looked expensive and good.

"My job imposes a dress code, my coat is wrinkle-resistent, and this floor is marble and cold as hell. As I am sure you've already discovered. We need to get you off of it before you die of pneumonia or before Stevie walks out and starts screaming. Whichever comes first."

She smiled a full smile for the first time, and the smile was lovely. Two unexpected dimples made an appearance and transformed her face.

"Thanks. My boxes fell apart. I am useless at packing, and even more so at unpacking. I was contemplating just living here in the hallway, but, as you pointed out, the floors are cold, and now you have me apprehensive of the wrath of Stevie."

When Danny approached to pick up two boxes at a time, he snuck a better look at the girl. She was small - about 5 foot 3 - and rather slim. She was also older than Danny first thought. From a distance he took her to be no older than 21, but upon closer examination he realized that she was in her late 20s, may be even 30. She had one of those heart-shaped faces that can sometimes look ageless. Her gray eyes looked clear and intelligent, but it could have been the effect of a pair of thin-rimmed glasses that were framing them.

Her face was scrubbed clean of any makeup, and, Danny guessed, she didn't use much in any case. She didn't need it. Her bone structure and her delicate skin were distinctive enough to not require enhancements. Danny also thought that her hair, once freed from the messy ponytail and tamed appropriately, would look downright beautiful.

He had to stop himself there, afraid that she would guess the directions his thoughts were heading. It wasn't that he was ogling her, or thinking anything in particular, for that matter. But he did look her over, and he rather liked what he saw.

They entered the apartment. All three of them, Oscar included. The nosy tabby made himself at home in a particularly interesting corner and was contemplating marking it.

"They say it's good luck to bring a cat into a new home," the girl remarked looking at Oscar with a doubtful expression. "I don't know, though, how lucky it would be if he peed in there."

"Oscar is much too well-behaved to pee anywhere except in his two designated litter boxes. But, if you encourage him, he'll demand at some point that you install one in here."

"Will he? Well, at least he gives you heads up. That's something." She fidgeted with one of the boxes, and Danny realized with surprise that she was nervous. "Oscar? Interesting name. Why Oscar and what did he do to deserve two litter boxes?"

Danny smiled.

"You'll have to ask Mrs. Fuller about the name. She lives in 76. Oscar is hers, but he prefers my place these days. Still, we both keep him in litter boxes, just in case. We never know who he will decide to grace with his presence on any given day, and it's best to be safe."

She didn't press for more details, instead she said:

"I've officially met Oscar, but I don't believe I caught your name."

"Danny. Danny Taylor, 74."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Danny Taylor, 74. I'm Audrey."

"I know." Danny couldn't hide the sly smile. "It's on your boxes. Audrey H. Mills. What does "H" stand for?"

Audrey laughed.

"Hepburn."

"For real?"

"Yep. My mother is a rabid fan. She had suffered from a terrible, prolonged, incurable disease called "I want my daughter to be just like my idol." A disease full of delusions and complications due to which I suffered several years of very painful, and, I am sad to say, very futile ballet training, drama classes, and even a course in how to be a perfect lady. My mother finally gave up when I was kicked out of "the perfect lady" course due to my incessant and unapologetic mocking of the teacher.

They both laughed and, suddenly, it didn't feel so awkward.

"So, Danny Taylor, 74, call me Audrey, but never, ever allude to that "H," if you want to stay in my good graces. And if you be so kind as not to think my mother too singularly weird, I'd appreciate that too."

Danny chuckled.

"I don't know if I think your mother all that singular. I know a Sam Spade. A woman. Her mother is a Bogart fan."

Audrey looked interested.

"And did your friend Sam Spade become an actress?"

"No, she is in law enforcement."

And they both burst out laughing again.