Ch. 11

Danny contemplated the odds of him reaching the gun he kept stashed in the drawer of the nightstand by his bed. If he took off at a run, he wouldn't get five feet before he was tackled. If he played things cool, made some excuse that took him into his room, he could step out and put a bullet in Jack and company's head before they could blink. But that was anger thinking for him, not really self-defense. Jack wasn't stupid enough to try something that he could be connected to. He wasn't a threat – at the immediate moment.

Getting the gun was still a tempting novelty if just to see the shocked look on Jack's face.

" If I told you to go to hell, would you go there?" Danny asked.

Jack, never one to lose a smirk, just kept on smirking. " Probably not."

" Then what the hell makes you think I'm gonna let you in?" Danny then proceeded to shut the door, only to have Jack plant his hand on it and push the opposite way.

" Danny, that's freakin' cold, man." He then shoved the door open, pulling it from Danny's slightly weaker grasp. Jack wasn't any sort of a Rambo-sized hard body, but he always seemed to posses an uncanny amount of strength that begged to differ otherwise. But then that had always been Jack's weapon of choice – muscle and a fast fist. He liked to deal with situations in a literal hands-on sort of way.

At any other time, Danny wouldn't have been the least bit intimidated. Brawn wasn't the only advantage out there since there was also speed, and Danny was plenty fast when he needed to be. But that was only when he was one hundred percent, and at the moment he didn't even feel quite up to fifty-percent.

Self-loathing tightened Danny's chest, but rather than stifle it he used it to give Jack the dirtiest look he could. Which was all he could do under the circumstances. He stiffly stepped back as Jack and his cohort stepped in. The second 'invited intruder' was shorter than Jack, and shorter than Danny as well by an inch. He had broad shoulders under a brown leather jacket, dark hair that was combed back, and side-burns running past his ears. The combination of wide, brown, wild-looking eyes and sharp features immediately brought to Danny's mind the images of various kinds of ferrets, weasels, and rats.

Want a piece of Ipecac-laced cheese you rodent face son of a... Danny regretted throwing the food out, now having nothing to offer his guests.

When Jack's crony entered, he walked with a stiff, agitated gate with eyes darting all over the place and hands shoved rigidly in the pockets of his jeans. Those same madly roving eyes were bloodshot, and Danny's anger escalated.

Rotten little SOB's high!

" Who the hell's he?" Danny asked, staring fixedly at junky-boy.

Jack glanced over his shoulder as though just realizing someone else was behind him. " Oh, him, yeah. Danny Messer, meet Al Moran." He looked back and Danny and grinned. " Al, meet Danny."

Al's eyes finally landed on Danny, and he twitched his head in a nod of greeting, flashing a quick, not-quite-all-there smile.

Danny narrowed his eyes. " He all right?"

Jack shrugged. " He's cool. He's my right hand man, Al is. But, of course, we're not here to talk about Al."

" So then you just brought him along for the company or to hold me down so you can pulverize the snot out of me without worryin' about retaliation?"

Al snorted out a laugh, then shook his head. Jack just continued to hold a nonchalant grin. " It's good to have back-up. Makes me feel safe when I go walkin' down the street in a strange neighborhood or have to visit with people who seem to have some sort of aversion to me..."

" Jack, just tell me why the hell you're here so you can get the freak out."

Behind Jack, Al closed the door, then leaned his back against it like a bouncer waiting for the lines to form. Danny maintained his mask of anger, but inside his heart was pumping fast.

Jack started back, scrunching his brow with slight confusion. " Danny, Danny, Danny... chill, bro. Man you are one cold-hearted little pit-bull waiting to happen, you know that?" He chuckled softly. " Hell, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were getting ready to rip my throat out. But you do know better than that, right Danny-boy?" The grin never left. The eyes, however, darkened as though someone had slapped a shadow over them. " You're not stupid."

Now Danny was reconsidering the gun in terms of self-preservation. His own back-up. But he held his ground by not moving, even when Jack stepped closer. Jack removed the glove from his left hand, then gently placed his hand on Danny's right shoulder. Danny went rigid.

" I've just been a little worried about you, pal. I mean with all the heat between our two families and the things both sides are resorting to... Plus the fact that you're hurt, which, of course, means you're probably weak... Face it, Danny, you might as well wear a sign on your back that says 'shoot me'."

Jack squeezed Danny's shoulder – hard. Pain erupted, Danny barked out a cry, then pulled away from Jack's vice grip.

" Oops," Jack mumbled, but wasn't even looking at Danny. He was looking at his hand, turning it this way and that, studying the blood smeared all over his fingers and palm. " Sorry about that. Hey, what'd you make of this?" He held his hand palm out for Danny to see.

Danny, lightly holding his shoulder, stared at Jack's crimson soaked fingers. He then pulled his own hand away to see his fingers covered in a similar manner. He reached back, wiping his hand along his shoulder blade, then looked at his hand again now painted in blood.

Fear would have taken a strangle hold if fury hadn't arrived first. Danny started shaking with a rage that was pulling and screaming at him to run into the bedroom, grab the gun, and let Jack know what it was like to pull his hand away and find it covered in his own blood. The problem was, it would have taken too long, and Danny wanted to do something now.

" What did you do to me to sadistic piece of sh..." he moved forward only to stop when Jack planted his bloody hand back on Danny's shoulder for another squeeze, this time holding tight enough to keep Danny from backing away. The look in Jack's eyes was void, as though his mind had decided to shut down all emotions.

" Danny, don't you dare blame this on me. Besides, it probably isn't that bad. I think I might have reopened it is all. I've got to go. Sorry I can't stay longer. You take care of that cut. And if your dad happens to call... you know the drill, sayin' hi for me and everything."

Jack released Danny and turned to go. Danny wanted to bash the man over the head with the nearest object he could find, but was hindered since his only working limb was occupied trying to stifle the bleeding of the other limb. So, instead, he straightened as best he could and lifted his head.

" Torture any dogs lately, Jack? Or are you just reservin' it all for me?"

Jack stopped and turned to face Danny. He pulled a few tissues from his pocket and proceeded to wipe Danny's blood from his hands. His expression was impassive, but at least he had stopped smiling.

" It's a necessary evil, Messer. You know that."

" Necessary or a lot of fun? You tellin' me you're not enjoying this? 'Cause, you know, I'm getting this crazy feeling that you came here because your buddies were havin' all the good times messing me up and you weren't. You really doing this to keep my dad in check, or because you miss makin' me your punching bag?"

Jack wadded the bloodied tissues up and shoved them into his pocket. His lips turned up in another smile that made Danny's flesh crawl.

" Don't know what you're talking about."

Danny shrugged. " I wasn't expecting you to admit anything, Jack, I was just wondering. Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

" Sure, Messer, whatever you say."

" Don't push it, Quinn."

Jack gave another soft chuckle. " You're a funny man, Messer. Don't push it..." He turned, and Al opened the door for the two to head out. Once on the other side of the threshold, Danny stalked over and slammed the door after them, then locked it.

Note to self: Never answer the door again. Or: get gun first, then answer the door.

With Quinn and his dope-buddy out of his hair he was able to put all his attention to his bleeding onslaught. He started handling it by heading to the bathroom and turning his back to the mirror. His shirt at the shoulder was soaked, and there was a four-inch slit in the material. He lifted up his shirt to see a two-inch long cut in his skin that oozed and sent a small drop of blood tracing a red line down his back to the bandage around his chest.

Being no stranger to lacerations, Danny was pretty certain the gash he had now was superficial – deep, but not bad enough to need stitches. Of course, getting stitches would have been playing it safe, but questions would have followed. And he couldn't figure out how Al had cut him. He hadn't been holding anything when he placed his hand on Danny's shoulder.

Freakin' magician crap.

Danny pulled out his first aid kit, cleaned the cut with rubbing alcohol, then covered it with a folded piece of gauze held in place by tape. After that, he changed into a clean shirt. He moved sluggishly back to the couch, just to sit for a moment and collect himself. If he drifted off again – oh well. It was better than giving into endless thought that didn't go anywhere. There wasn't much he could do about Quinn at the moment, and he was too tired to think. The adrenaline of only seconds ago had burned itself clean from his system.

Danny stepped in front of the couch and stopped. A bright red stain glared at him from the light-colored fabric.

Danny looked at the stain without any definable feeling except numbness. He refused to invest any emotion into what gradually began to blossom into realization. Forcing himself away from the couch, he went to where he had dumped his coat and picked it up. Sure enough, there was a four-inch slit in the shoulder. He let the coat slip from his hands.

" Now I gotta get a new one." It explained why the little SOB who had knocked into him on the subway never apologized.

Danny went back to the couch and dropped into it, wincing at his bones being assaulted by the impact.

He knew he should have been burning with rage, kicking or throwing something. Physical energy, however, had turned its back on him. It was as though seeing blood on his couch – proof that Jack hadn't been the one to cut him, just make the stupid gash bleed again – had sapped him of everything he had left strength-wise. It didn't help that his head felt filled with a thick liquid that was pushing against his brain, pulsing with every beat of his suddenly loud heart. He ached, not just in his head, shoulder, and sides but everywhere.

" Damn it," he murmured, dropping his head back against the couch. He knew he needed to call his dad, but lost the will to move.

CSINY

Calvin was in a doze, which was all he could achieve when it came to sleeping. He was tired enough to nod off on a whim, the problem was his mind didn't know when to shut up. He never dreamed – he pondered endlessly. Mostly what-ifs, what might be, and what was happening even now: all centering around Danny, of course.

Calvin wasn't afraid to go to jail. Going to the same prison as his enemies was a little unnerving, but prison itself – not so much, at least not so much now. People eventually got out of prison. Besides, Calvin couldn't deny that he probably deserved it. He wasn't exactly a model citizen.

But Danny was.

Rodriguez had yet to call back, and his phone had remained silent for the better part of the day. He took it as a good thing, mostly because he needed a little respite from the panicky thoughts that kept trying to cram into his brain. Quinn wouldn't do anything life-threatening to Danny, which was the only reassurance Calvin had. So, he could safely assume that a quiet phone was something to relax about.

Getting some good sleep would have been better.

He shifted slightly in the easy chair. A bed would be healthier, but his body was being stubborn, and he didn't want to have to deal with dragging himself through the routine of getting ready for bed. Chair or bed, anywhere was fine if it led to dreams, which, of course, didn't happen.

The image of Danny's bruised face kept slamming into his conscious, driving out the dreams, and dragging along the image of Danny at age ten, battered and mute with the discomfort of it. The kid never seemed able to avoid a bruise or two, mixed with a cracked bone on occasion. Even his well-known name, and his stubborn refusal to give in, didn't keep those little Tanglewood freaks from jumping him when they could get away with it. They had called themselves his friends, but decked him more than once, probably because he never allowed their mark to get inked on the back of his neck. Danny never admitted to the attacks, mostly because he never admitted to much, but Calvin had known the truth through the tension of the Tanglewood boys whenever Calvin appeared and saw the bruising.

Life had never been easy for Danny, not with all the negative affiliations surrounding him. But he had tried, had pushed, and wallowed through the muck of being part of a dark family history to come out better than any of them. Most would call what Calvin was thinking the product of fatherly pride, but it was far more; it was the cold, hard truth. Danny had become the better man, and was hated for it.

He'll be all right. The kid can handle himself. The mantra only gave him a few minutes of peace.

A rapid pounding ripped Calvin from his doze. He blinked several times, then winced when the pounding sounded again. Rolling his eyes, he pushed himself from the warm comfort of the chair and dragged his stiff frame to the door.

" I'm coming!" he called, even though the pounding had stopped. " That better not be you, Stevenson," Calvin grumbled. He put his hand on the knob, and heard tires squeal as some maniac slammed on the gas. When Calvin opened the door he saw his porch to be devoid of any human occupants. A natural inclination for these types of situations forced him to look down. Sitting on his mat was a small pocket knife, like a Swiss army knife. He crouched to pick it up, turning it in the light of the porch. It was caked with dried blood.

Calvin brought the knife inside, turning it over, holding it by the end between his thumb and forefinger. He slowly lowered himself back into his chair but leaned forward to examine the knife. The blood was thickest at the tip.

Calvin had no questions concerning this find. He already knew the answers. The next step – call Danny. Calvin hesitated. He stretched out his arm to drop the knife – free of fingerprints, he knew – onto the coffee table. He stared at it, willing it to become something more human, something he could strangle or pound mercilessly, letting it feel the pain it liked to inflict. There wasn't a lot of blood, so the wound created could not have been that bad. But the knife looked dirty.

Calvin's eyes burned. He blinked, and the burning traced itself down his face. Calvin wiped them away and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, closed his eyes, and felt two more tears tracing two new paths. Pain tightened his chest and throat.

Calvin was adept at not crying, mostly because he knew when to let it out, counting three times in all his life: Once when his son was beaten, once when his wife died, and now.

Calvin clasped his hands together, lowered his head, and wept a ceaseless apology to his son.

CSINY

A/N: I promise that Mac will find out what's going on very soon. Please refrain from lighting torches and burning me at the stake. Killing the author will not solve your dilemma, only make it worse.

Also, if you think Danny's cut did indeed need stitches because of all the bleeding, I'm telling you from experience that he'll survive without getting sewn up. I sliced my foot once and probably should have gotten stitches, but I didn't. Now I have a honking-big scar. Still, I lived. As will Danny.