To DD or Not to DD
Fandom: CSI:NY
Author: Kimmychu
Rating: FRM (it may go up later)
Pairing: Danny/Flack, Danny/Mac
Content Warning: Cracktasticness, odd body changes, language. Did I mention cracktasticness?
Spoilers: Set after 'Fair Game', so spoilers for any episode previous to that
Summary: After a freak laboratory accident at CSI headquarters, Danny is cursed (or blessed, depending on how you see things) with very unusual ... add-ons. Inspired by a forum comment: "Danny is the show's DD breasts."
Disclaimer: Nope, none of the characters belong to me. What a shame. I would treat them oh so well. They have no idea what they're missing.
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Author's Notes: To someone with the nickname 'Gambitfox', I know I got a PM from you, but my email checking program ate up the email. So, do you mind sending it to me again? Perhaps you could try leaving a review. Seems the stats for my story has gone kaput too. Oh well.
Short chapter this time, but not to worry, the next one is for Flack and Hawkes fans! Also a little warning for people who're sensitive about current political issues ... none of the stuff written in this chapter is meant to attack anyone. It's simply part of the story as one of the character's opinions.
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Chapter 14
The Red Lion was a pub situated in the heart of Little Italy, at the corner of a street bordered by a diversity of family-owned stores, restaurants and cafes. Naturally, they were all owned by Italians whose immigrant ancestors concluded their exodus there in the nineteenth century. Mac seldom came into this part of the city, except to attend the annual, raucous San Gennaro feast for the canoli.
What a british pub was doing in the center of this neighborhood was something that baffled him. Only Jon would choose a place like this for a rendezvous.
"So, Maclaren. I'm guessin' this ain't a social call." Jon Turgis smirked sardonically.
Mac smirked back. "Don't play dumb, Jon. You know why I'm here."
The two men sat facing each other in an isolated section of the pub, right next to the narrow hallway that led to the washrooms and the pub's backdoor. A rectangular lamp above them caused their angular faces to be cast into stark shadows. A half-full bottle of Jack Daniel's whisky stood forlornly on its own next to Jon's brawny arm on the table. They each nursed their own glass; Mac's was still full, while Jon's was almost finished.
"I told ya not to pursue this." Jon's silver eyes glinted sharply even in the darkness.
"I can't back off. It's personal now." Mac took a sip of his whisky, eyeing his friend with a veiled expression.
"Fuck." An oversized hand seized the Jack Daniel's and irately poured more of the alcohol into an empty glass. "You never let anythin' go, do ya?"
"I mean it." Mac scowled acutely. "Your secret technology has … seriously affected one of my employees."
Jon stilled. "What the hell are ya on 'bout?"
"Did you really think I'd let you invade my lab and take everything?" Mac's lips curled into a charade of a smile. "You know what I'm talking about. Microscopic, sentient robots sound familiar?"
The colossal man squeezed into his seat stared at Mac in silence.
"Can't imagine what people would want with that kind of technology. What do you think, Jon? Got any bright ideas about that?"
Jon continued to stare, then grinned mirthlessly. "Smart boy. Shoulda known you woulda hidden away some of it for yer own personal research."
"I want to know."
"Know what?"
"Tell me about it. This advanced nanotechnology the FBI's developing."
Jon sucked the inside of his cheek, coolly gauging the other man. "I tell ya, I'll have to kill ya."
"You've said that to me at least five times in the past, Jon. Closest you ever came to killing me was when you coerced me into going to that appalling belly dancer bar in Saudi Arabia. You remember that?"
His friend smiled frankly for the first time that evening. "Goddamn, I remember. I had to drag you out by the ankles the next day 'cos the women sucked you dry." Jon's grin stretched. "Literally."
Mac's face warmed. His body revived the sensation of lying on a soft rug and squashing two very abundant womanly body additions in his hands. His face warmed even more.
"Geez, I didn't think you'd even remember that." Jon took another swig of whisky. "Whadda hell brought that on?"
" … My employee." Mac grimaced. "The nanotechnology's … changed him."
"Into what? A friggin' belly dancer?" Jon's face slackened at Mac's lack of response. Or rather, the discomfited expression on his face. "You're fuckin' kiddin' me."
" … No, I'm not."
"Sonofabitch." Jon burst into a thunderous guffaw that compelled the other customers of the pub to glance in their direction. "Now that's one fer the books! Who's the unlucky bastard?"
Mac pouted, drawing circles in the water rings left by the chilled glass.
"So we're gonna play the guessing game, eh? Right." Jon cocked his head and narrowed his eyes in concentration. "A him, eh? There's … that ME turned CSI. Sheldon Hawkes, was it?" Jon watched Mac intently. "Hmm, no, it's not him. How 'bout … the pretty boy? The son of that New York legend, they call 'im. Flack. No?"
Mac remained hushed.
"Hmmmm. Naah … " Jon's brows went straight up his lined forehead. "It's that Messer guy, hhn?"
Mac returned his stare at long last. "Yes."
Jon erupted into another round of cackling. "Poor bastard. Shoots a fellow police officer, gets locked up in some panic room with a dead guy … and now he's turned into a …" - he gesticulated with his callused hands as he searched for an appropriate term - "A what? A guy with boobs? A mishmash of both man and woman?"
Mac didn't take the trouble to update him further on his recruits; his old friend most likely had information about them even he didn't. At least Jon wasn't aware of the fine details of Danny's … predicament.
He pointed at Mac with a long forefinger. "Told ya he was gonna be a buncha trouble, didn't I?"
Mac frowned. "He needs help, Jon. What happened to him wasn't his fault."
"And ya think you can just call me up and demand a meetin' and then tell me, 'Hey Jon! We bein' such old pals and you bein' an FBI assistant director and all, why don'tcha hand over top secret government secrets so I can help out one o' my rowdy brats? Hey, it doesn't matter it'll putcha in deep shit and fuck up yer life … a bullet into yer brain's quick and easy anyway, right?"
Mac shut his eyes and squeezed his temple, frown intensifying. He couldn't tell if was his friend's angry black humor or the whisky that was triggering another of his migraines.
Jon huffed with the power of a jet engine.
"I could never say no to ya … could I?"
Mac gawked at Jon with wide eyes, face heating up at the implication in those words. Jon gazed in return from beneath lowered eyelids.
"Geez, after all this time, you still blush at my mention of -"
"Jon, just tell me about the nanotechnology. Or any useful information," Mac cut in, evading Jon's eyes. Jon's intimate scrutiny were bringing back memories that were rather unbecoming in their current circumstances.
"Well, like I said. I could never say no to ya."
Jon downed what was left of his whisky. He decanted more into Mac's glass and his own before speaking again.
"Okay. Okay. It's like this. Our country's at war now. We've got enemies who'd do just 'bout anythin' to destroy us, if they could. They got to us once already." Jon didn't need to bring up the September 11th calamity; it was present like a suffocating elephant in the room. "But the thing is, we've been flappin' our dicks and stompin' on other countries long before these guys even thought 'bout doing the same thing to us."
Jon scoffed at Mac's affronted look.
"Oh, c'mon, Maclaren. It's the truth and ya know it. Do I even hafta mention Vietnam? The Middle East? Iraq?" Jon grunted. "Weapons of mass destruction. Hah. Believe me, their weapons are nothin' compared to ours."
"Ya think you should be scared of them? Naah, monsters exists, alright, and they're right here. At home. Fuck, the things I've seen … ya can't even begin to imagine the fucked up crap I've seen in our labs since I became a Fed." He gulped another mouthful of alcohol, licking his thin lips. "Ya remember those Cyclops babies we saw in the Gulf? That was nothin'."
"So, let's be honest with each other here. The second the word 'terrorist' pops up, ya'll be thinkin' of some bearded, Asian man with a turban on his head talkin' 'bout jihad and killin' infidels and Jews. Even if ya don't look like that, it don't matter jack shit. Don't even matter if you're of any other religion or race, specially if you're from a Muslim country. We don't like yer face, yeeeeer out."
Jon leaned forward. "Now, let's just say, some dumbass scientist in some laboratory creates the ultimate weapon the world's never supposed ta know. He makes teeny weeny nanobots capable of doin' anythin' the guy programs them to. Anythin'."
"And let's just say, this technology gets stolen by the wrong people. Let's just say, they figure out how to program the nanobots to transform their bodies and make themselves look like completely different people. Like, oh, I dunno … your typical white, american folk. Gonna be kinda hard to figure out who's the terrorist and who isn't if that happens, hhhn?"
Mac's hand clenched into a fist on the table top.
"That's not even the worst shit. Just imagine the kind of bioterrorism weapons that could be made from this technology. You won't even need any o' them viruses anymore. All ya need is a fuckin' warped imagination and a nanotechnologists who knows what he's doin'. And the whole world gets fucked faster than a young whore in Amsterdam."
"'Course, none of that crap's happened. Yet. We've been observin' the entire project really closely from the start, and nothin' leaked out." Jon sighed heavily. "But yeah, of all the messed up things … we just had to have a male nanotechnologists with a fetish for dressing in drag and wantin' to be a freakin' woman."
Jon sneered, while Mac's brows raised dramatically.
"Yeah, you'll never know what comes yer way, huh? So, the guy creates his special nanobabies, and then he throws a fit requestin' the big guys that he be allowed to use his creation to change himself into one. For real. You can picture how that turned out. He freaked out big time at their denial, and the little bastard turned fugitive on us and vanished into thin air."
"I got a whole buncha crap for it. The higher ups held me responsible for the guy going missing." The giant man rubbed jadedly at his face. "I dunno why the fuck I assigned those two idiots to watch 'im, of all o' 'em. Least they're workin' in my favor now, even if the poor fucks don't know it."
"The agents who went to my CSI's apartment last week." Mac gazed meaningfully at Jon. "It was you who called me."
"No, Maclaren. It was friggin' Smokey the Bear."
Mac couldn't help himself and smiled at the non-sequitur.
Jon reached into his coat pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. It surprised Mac. He never knew Jon had picked up the habit of smoking.
"The scientist is incognito for a couple o' weeks. I get my men searching 'im high and low, and no one finds a trace of him. Then, we hear 'bout a suspicious dead body abandoned in upper Manhattan covered in the stuff we've been tryin' to hide from the world all this time. And of all the sonoftheguns who gets the case … it juuuust had ta be you." Jon pulled out a single cigarette and lit it with a black plastic lighter. "Somebody up there hates my guts, I tell ya."
"So, the end of the story is, we don't know if anybody else's gotten a hold of the nanotechnology. All we can do is wait. And here we are, with your guy in one hell of a mess. You ever thought 'bout recommendin' 'im to go into the strippin' business?"
Mac pointedly stared at him.
"What? I can't even crack a joke no more?"
"I need information. Anything that can help him. I know you know how he can be changed back. I'm not going to leave you alone until you do." Mac bared his teeth. "And you know how persistent I can be."
Jon's face was blank, but his silver eyes said many, many things. "Oh, I know how persistent you can be. I'm just damn glad I was always clever enough ta keep a large supply of condoms 'round."
Mac flushed crimson.
"You're so easy." Jon puffed on his cigarette, grinning like a cat who got the canary twice over. He got out a pen and small notepad, scrawling down an address.
"Go there. On the outside, it looks like a derelict building but don't let it fool ya. There's an exclusive club in there. Look for someone called Gideon." Jon slid the piece of paper to Mac. "That's all I can do for ya."
"Thank you, Jon." Mac was genuinely grateful.
"Hell, don't thank me yet. Ya don't even know what you're up against." Jon blew out some smoke through his nostrils, looking like a quiescent humanoid dragon. "But as I said, you're a smart boy, top CSI that you are."
"Jon … are they blackmailing you?"
"Blackmailing me? Hah, you've gotta be kiddin' me. This is Nuclear Jon you're talkin' to. The guy who friggin' wipes out everythin' in sight, remember?"
Mac gave him a tiny smile.
"By the way …" Jon put out his cigarette on the table, then got to his feet. He had a wicked smirk on his weathered face.
"If you're gonna crash that club … don't bother bringin' any of your female detectives. If ya know what I mean."