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 'Necrophilia Americana', 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: Officially the longest chapter so far. Man! My only advice when reading this one is … please to not be drinking any hot coffee or tea. Or anything liquid, for that matter. And yes, episode spoilers have moved up to the latest episode so far, Necrophilia Americana. Possibly one of the sweetest DannyFlack episodes yet! The document manager doesn't quite like me for some reason. Sometimes I have problem uploading any documents, so if you wanna check for the latest chapters, the best place to go to is my homepage. The link is available via my Profile page.
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Chapter 17
Danny sneaked past the rainbow-colored front entrance of the bar, dropping his head and shielding his face with the lapels of his latest coat. Eventhough he knew the chances of anyone in there looking out the windows would spot or recognize him were exceptionally slim, his face still turned bright red.
The Rainbow was a very fitting name for the dyke bar where he crashed and burned his despair that night.
And the dirty-blonde, shoulder blade length wig he wore should be dispelling any suspicions he was the same person who was nearly molested by that fat, nauseating jerk-off. He shivered, zipping up the coat up to the top of the collar until only his blue eyes showed.
He had whined to Flack about wanting a large, bulky coat similar to his CSI one with the excuse he was cold in Mac's hideout apartment. There was no way Danny was going to tell Flack about his jaunt into a lesbian bar, much less getting his ass rescued by the new girl in town. Flack would tease him for months. Within a half hour after his call via a secured line, Stella was there with what she said was one of Flack's smaller coats and a few … bras. Danny could barely look Stella in the eye as he took them, but she was very sweet and never once mocked him about them. Instead, she related to his neck and back aches, and insisted that he wore them for the sake of his comfort.
With hot breasts like hers, Stella was one woman whose advice he'd take any day. She was right too; he instantaneously felt much better once the pressure rescinded, the weight now supported by the black, lacy bra. The bra felt really unpredictably pleasant too, except for the tautness around his chest caused by the belts running to the back where the bra was fixed firmly by metal clips. Danny was never, ever going to treat women disrespectfully again. He was wrong all along; they had it way worse than guys.
He was tremendously grateful Mac trusted him enough to leave him on his own at the apartment, even after his drunken escapade. There was also no way in hell he was going to let anyone know he spent over forty-five minutes simply admiring the DD-cup breasts he now owned in their new brassiere. Wow, if they weren't on his own chest and on a real woman, he'd be trailing her on his hands and knees dribbling like a St. Bernard dog. He knew he wasn't the only guy who thought they were the bomb. Flack and Mac did a piss poor job of concealing their caveman ogling whenever they were around him. What the heck did women need guys for when they had fantastic body parts like breasts to play with all day?
He looked like a completely different person in the mirror. He'd given up on waiting for any of his facial or body hair to grow back. He was starting to grow fond of the smooth appearance and feeling big time anyway. At the very least, he still had hair down there. As well as his manly equipment, thank God. If those disappeared on him, he was going to go on a freaking homicidal rampage whether anyone liked it or not. His arms had slimmed; they were still toned but were more … feminine. His legs were still the same but they were always skinny in any case. His eyelashes were probably longer than an average woman's. Even his lips had become more plump.
The hair on his head finally stopped growing a day after his stay at Lindsay's apartment. He didn't want to think about that much; what he learnt there still made him bite the inside of his cheek. If he were to comb his hair straight down, it'd droop just a bit past his chin. He hoped Mac didn't mind him using the scissors or barber's shaver he found in the apartment's bathroom cupboard. He never knew Mac cut and trimmed his own hair; yet another hidden talent of his supervisor. In the morning after breakfast from Mac's stocked fridge, Danny had shaved short the hair in the back as well as the sides. He left the front long as it was, merely trimming it a little and layering it the best he could so it reached to his lips. After much testing, he decided on a side-parting style, tucking the hair on the more narrow side behind his ear while letting the hair on the wider parting fall across his face, veiling one eye. It was definitely a novel look, and he thought it suited his new physique. Combined with his silver spectacles, it lent his overall appearance an air of sophistication.
Discovering the wigs in Mac's bedroom closet was a real shocker to Danny. He spent over a half hour browsing through a huge box of them, laughing at some of the radically-colored ones. Who the heck wore a violet and yellow, curly wig with pigtails? He picked out a few wigs he thought were appropriate for outside wear; he'd need to wear them if he wished to be certain no one would distinguish him when he was out and about. He was still puzzled by the presence of the wigs, until he looked into another box and saw a whole stack of photo albums, a layer of dust coating the top one.
The upper few were all packed with photographs of Mac and his late wife Claire, a striking brunette with a kindhearted smile. He'd met her only once, when he began working for her husband. Her open affection for Mac and those around him left a lasting, positive impression on Danny. In many of the pictures, Mac and Claire were kneeling or huggling different children, smiling almost playfully into the camera and wearing some of the wigs he found. The various children were also wearing silly wigs, some with circus clown make up on their beaming faces. There was one thing all the children they were with had in common.
All of them were attired in light hospital gowns, some appearing as pale as the gowns they wore. Some were terribly emaciated and sickly, as if they were going through a grueling medical treatment their young bodies couldn't handle. Some, who weren't donning wigs, were bald. Some had nasal cannula tubes attached to oxygen tanks snaking across their faces, as well as IV drips in their skeletal wrists. Some were too weak to stand or walk and were in wheelchairs, blankets laid across their laps and legs.
In one specific picture, where Mac was wearing a bright green, shaggy wig and embracing a group of these laughing children in his arms, there was a sign above them.
The bold words, 'Children's Cancer Ward' were meticulously printed on the rectangular plaque.
Danny should have been laughing his guts out at the vision of Mac in a ridiculous wig like that, but all it did was bring stinging tears to his eyes. If he ever had any misgivings about Mac lying about genuinely caring for him, they were permanently expelled now. It seemed Danny had been erroneous about many things in regards to his boss and fellow CSI. He wasn't the pitiless, emotionless bastard people presumed he was at all.
Based on the delighted smiles of these cancer-stricken children, Mac had a bigger and more loving heart than anyone could ever have imagined.
Danny sat on the bedroom floor spending his time looking through the photographs throughout the afternoon before tenderly putting the photo albums and wigs back where they originally were. He silently pondered whether Mac still visited the children's cancer ward at that hospital after Claire's untimely passing.
Now, as the sun began to set in the distance skyline, Danny strolled aimlessly on the streets to clear his mind and get some fresh air. The wig was feeling more and more like a cap with each step, so it no longer bothered him as much. Flack's coat was just right on his shoulders, keeping him snug and warm from the dropping temperature of the evening. He pressed the collar against his nose, breathing in the natural scent permeating the woolen fabric.
Damn, Flack smelled good. Like roses and fresh apricot.
He stepped off the curb, rapt in meditation about squiggling initials within a heart into wet cement and buying Flack a pair of shoes. Where he and the tall detective could go for a couple of rounds of golf sometime, after this was all over. He couldn't help thinking Flack was trying to hint at something when he chitchatted about the initials in cement thing, during their investigation of that urban golf case. Kinda strange of the guy to jump to conclusions that people writing their initials like that would automatically end up bickering, much less get married.
Danny half-expected Flack to doodle their names in a heart on the wet cement, just for a joke's sake. He smiled sideways at the idea, ambling towards the pavement on the opposite side. That would have been amusing. He would have sliced it out and kept it to tease Flack about it then. And even if there was no teasing, it would be nice to keep it for memories.
The shocking impact of a car's bumper on his leg took his breath away. He was flung sideways onto the hood of the car as the car attempted to brake, landing hard on the unyielding metal surface then spinning off and rolling twice before lying facedown on the abrasive road. His spectacles clattered away somewhere into the distance.
"Oh my God! Are you okay!"
Danny tried to lift his head, but even that was too much of an effort over the trauma he was just subjected to. An image of Mac's concerned face materialized in his mind, followed by Flack's visage, the homicide detective's eyes round with trepidation.
I'm sorry, Danny whispered soundlessly.
His eyes fluttered close.
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Flack slumped on Danny's couch alone, scowling at the television as it showed some peculiar cartoon about a talking yellow sponge who fried Krabby Patties for a living and had a fat, pink starfish for a best friend. His heavy-lidded eyes were directed at the television, but his mind was distracted by other issues. Flack's pint-sized companion on the couch next to him nudged him in the arm to encourage him to speak.
"This here apartment belongs to one of my best friends. I told ya 'bout him, remember? He's a CSI, means crime scene investigator. He's a detective like me, 'cept I work in the homicide department and at another precinct in the city." Flack took a mouthful of beer from the can he held in hand. His brain was berating him for drinking alcohol during the day, a work day. He told his brain to shut the hell up because he got to leave early so he was technically off already, so there. And it was his body too, so there.
"See, he's not like other guys, my friend Danny. He's like, like …" Flack gesticulated wildly with his free hand like a theatrical actor starring in Macbeth. "He's like, the ultimate drama queen. He whines better than a spoilt little brat with too much for his own good. One time, he drove this chef at this Italian restaurant nuts over a cold lasagna. We were out eatin' after a movie, okay? So, there we were, me with my hot ravioli and him with his cold lasagna and he demands ta see the head waiter or the chef. The chef comes over, and Danny reams him a new one over why a cold lasagna's a fuckin' crime the guy oughta be arrested for. So, get this."
The yellow sponge on television suddenly screams and runs around like a mad … yellow sponge, eyes popping out of their sockets and wailing something about bad Krabby Patties. Flack thought that complimented his story really well.
"The chef mistakes Danny for really wantin' to arrest him, and hightails it right outta the place! Whoosh! Me and Danny do the chasing cop thing, we bag him just a couple a' dozen feet outside the restaurant 'cos the perp's so fat he was already wheezin' when Danny slams him like a quarterback." Flack laughed, sipping more beer. "That was good. Danny bounced off the guy like he was a friggin' trampoline. You shoulda seen his face when he landed on his ass after that." Flack sniggered some more. "Danny was bruised in the toosh for over a week. But the thing is? Turns out Danny's drama act paid off for the NYPD. We came up with over a million dollars' worth of drugs in the perp's fridge. Guy was so anxious 'bout his stash, he couldn't even cook his food right. Heh."
Flack smiled happily for a minute then hastily returned to scowling like an old man with no teeth who could no longer eat his favorite food. "Fuck, I miss the little snarky bastard."
He bounced on the couch to face his conversation buddy. "Did I mention I haven't seen him in nearly three days? Three freakin' days?"
His companion gazed at him with round, russet eyes and made a noncommittal sound.
"Man, I can't even call him unless it's on a secured line Mac set up. God knows where the hell the guy knows these things, but whatever. Least I get ta talk to Danny once in awhile." Flack selected an undersized slice of pizza and handed it on a plate to his pal, who eagerly chewed on it. "I hate waitin'. Did I mention that too? I hate waitin' to bust that scientist broad for drug possession when we could be doin' it now. I hate knowin' Danny's out there on his own and we're stuck havin' to work on other cases too instead of putting his to the forefront. And I hate havin' to pretend like Danny's around here so the Feds'll think nothin's up."
"So, Danny calls up and says, 'Flack, I'm cold here, gimme a big coat, will ya?' I mean, geez, if Mac was gonna give him a hideaway place ta stay, ya think he'd turn on the heating too. But yeah, I got to talk to Danny and tell him the good news we're on ta somethin'. So if everythin' goes accordin' to plan, we should be havin' a nice, little chat soon with somebody who'll be able to turn Danny back to his old self." Flack's lips twisted into an abominable smirk. "And if the bitch doesn't wanna, I'll make sure she knows what it's like to be interrogated by Don fuckin' Flack, Jr."
His little chat buddy let out a high-pitched whine.
"Yeah. I know 'xactly how ya feel. I'll let ya have a go at her too, if ya want. You're way too good for her though."
Flack finished his beer and sighed, looking glum. "I don't like it, ya know, when he's left alone too much. I know him. Always gets kinda hyperactive and mad when he's got nobody 'round him for too long." Unease narrowed his blue eyes.
"I just hope he's not gonna go out against orders and get into major trouble, ya know?"
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The tarmac was icy and coarse beneath his cheek.
"Are you alright? Please say something if you're conscious."
Danny felt two strong hands on his shoulders, turning him onto his back. There was a burning soreness in his left thigh and knee, and he ached all over his body. He wasn't sure if he'd broken any bones, but it didn't feel like it; he'd be shouting his head off if he did. He felt slightly woozy too; the whole world spun around him like a sadistic merry-go-round. He wanted to get off this frickin' ride. Now.
Somebody patted him on his cheek. He moaned, twisting away. As long as he closed his eyes, he didn't feel like throwing up the contents of his stomach.
"Please, tell m-"
" … Stop shakin' me. I'm just … dizzy." He shoved the hands away, keeping his eyes closed, wincing at the sprain in his left bicep. He was going to feel that for some time.
"Thank goodness. Here, let me help you up."
The same hands grasped him under his arms and deftly lifted him to his feet. Danny groaned. All his bruises were making themselves known now. Why did this crap always happen to him? Did he have some poster stuck on his back that said, 'Potential Victim Here'?
"Do you need to go to a hospital?" That voice … it sounded familiar.
"N-no, it's okay. I just need a moment." Danny shielded his eyes with a hand, nearly tripping over when his left leg buckled. Fortunately, the other man was speedy as he was strong.
"Whoa, okay. There's a bench nearby." He led Danny to it, seating him there and then sitting next to Danny himself. "Are you hurt anywhere? You landed pretty hard on my car although I already braked."
Danny inhaled sharply, grimacing at the dull pain pulsating unabatedly in his left thigh. "Just my leg. Think I just bruised it badly."
Danny's eyes snapped open when the man tenderly squeezed his left leg. Ouch. Now that hurt.
"Sorry. Just checking to see how bad it was. You're right, it's only bruised."
He felt something being placed into his hand. It was his spectacles.
"T-thanks." Danny put them on.
"I regret to tell you your, uhm, wig is now crushed under one of the front wheels of my car." The man chuckled. "However, I don't know why you're wearing one. You have lovely hair."
Danny swore he knew that voice. He stared down at his chest and realized his coat had by some means unzipped during the accident. Anyone who looked at him now would have one amazing view of his cleavage.
Including the guy who'd knocked him down and then helped him.
Oh shit! He had to get away!
"I-I'm sorry, I have to go." He lurched to his feet and hobbled away as swiftly as he could. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap …
"Wait! Please!" He felt a hand clutch him not unkindly by the arm. Okay, as mortifying as it was, this was one of those situations where he wasn't going to think twice about screaming like a woman.
He pivoted to face the guy headlong, his mouth falling open to shriek as loudly as he could.
And any sound that emanated at all died into a pathetic croak at the now identified face.
"It's okay, I won't hurt you. I'm a police officer, see?" The man had taken out his wallet, displaying his NYPD badge. "I head the Internal Affairs Bureau."
He flashed a huge grin at Danny. "Chief Hillborne. But you can call me Neville."
"I … I-I-I … I-"
Oh. Fuck. He was fucking DOOMED.
"Won't you at least tell me your name?"
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"Okay, this is how it's been so far." Flack was consuming his fourth can of beer. His jacket was flung somewhere behind the couch, and his shirt was opened wide at the collar. His striped tie was askew. His blue eyes were half-open, giving him a sleepy, inebriated look. He sprawled indolently on the long furniture, his pizza-eating buddy now lying on top of him, examining him with big brown eyes.
"I'm the one who's always makin' the first move, see? First word, first touch, first whatever. And he's always the one who gets to think out his move 'cos I'm the one who hasta figure out whaddahell he's thinkin'. I say, 'Hey Danny, whaddaya think a' my new suit?' and he says, 'I dunno, Flack, ya ever thought 'bout gettin' yer eyes checked?' Budda-budda-budda-ching! See, it's like this game we play. We tease each other 'til one a' us breaks down and laughs."
Flack sloppily takes a swig from the beer can. "Geez, it's tough ta make the guy laugh … but when he does, it's like the Eighth Wonder of the World. And I get ta see it all for myself." He frowned suddenly. "Ya know what I heard, pal? I heard from Mac that Danny stayed over at Monroe's place. Ya know that? Slept at her place. He's never crashed at mine. Ever." His frown intensified. "What's she got that I don't? Hahnn? Some country hick, comin' over here like she thinks she owns the place, like everybody's gonna forget Aiden so easy. Hmphh. I miss Aiden too. I could always talk ta her 'bout Danny." Flack wiped at his mouth.
"Yeahyeah, she's replacing Aiden, but it'll be fuck all 'fore she replaces me. I ain't so easy to be kicked outta the competition, if ya get what I mean. Danny and I, we got somethin' special goin' on. It's been there since we first met over five years ago, ya know that?" Flack huffed, closing his eyes in resignation. "Least I know there's somethin' special I feel for him."
Flack's tiny companion whined again and laid his head on Flack's chest.
"Aww, it's not you I'm mad at, Einstein." Flack affectionately scratched Mrs. Penrose's pet Corgi between his cute, triangular ears. Einstein stuck out his tongue and panted in enjoyment at the head scratch. "Danny likes ya too much anyway."
"Einstein? Eiiiinsteeeeeeeeein! Where are you? It's dinner time!"
Lying on the couch, Flack grimaced. Einstein raised his head and woofed at Flack.
"Whoops. Guess I shouldn't have fed ya all that pizza and beer, huh?"
Cuddling the Corgi, he got to his feet swiftly albeit a little unsteadily. He opened Danny's apartment door to see Mrs. Penrose in a flowery dress and sandals with her wooden cane, about to yell for her pet dog again.
"Einstein! There you aaareeee."
Flack smiled at the petite old lady, placing the adorable dog onto the floor. Einstein scampered up to his owner, licking her hands and barking with enthusiasm.
"I, uh, I kinda fed him already, Mrs. Penrose. Sorry 'bout that."
"Oh, of course it's fine, Donny." Mrs. Penrose glanced up at him. "Is everything alright with you and Daniel?"
Flack made an ambiguous face. "Well, uhm, yeah, everything's fine. Danny's, uh, just gone on a short holiday. Wanted me to look after things here." His lower face split into what he hoped was a benign grin.
Mrs. Penrose old, kind eyes oddly reminded Flack of Gideon's. "Ah, I see. No wonder I haven't seen him in a while. He deserves a holiday once in a while. That boy works too hard sometimes."
They watched Einstein scurry into Mrs. Penrose's apartment on his stubbly legs.
"Don. You can talk to me. Anytime."
Flack was pissed off at himself for feeling like he wanted to bawl.
"Thanks, Mrs. Penrose. It's just … difficult. I can deal with it. But I'll keep yer offer in mind."
Mrs. Penrose smiled at him, and then returned to her apartment. He went back inside Danny's, closing the door. He slid down it, kneeling at its base.
In the privacy of the empty apartment, Flack silently sobbed to the soundtrack of the cartoon's ending credits.
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"You do have a name, right?"
Danny was so petrified he couldn't even breathe.
"D - D … Dan- …" He suddenly recalled the name that bartender Gertrude at The Rainbow had dubbed him. "Danielle."
"Danielle." Hillborne was still smiling. "That's a beautiful name."
Danny wanted to laugh hysterically. This was the guy who humiliated him when he tried to clear his name over the Minhaus subway shooting. The guy who bestowed him with one of the lowest, sorrowful days of his entire existence. Yet, here he was, the chief of IAB, hitting on him.
And the dumbass. Didn't. Recognize him.
"I really am sorry about the accident, Danielle. I hope you'll forgive me. It was entirely my fault. I should have been more cautious when driving. Please, let me take you out to dinner. To make up for it."
Danny's brain broke into a thousand pieces. A muscle twitched uncontrollably in his forehead.
"I just made reservations at Nobu this coming Friday, at eight in the evening. I was intending to dine alone, but since we're here …" Hillborne's eyes were pleading pitiably for a encouraging answer. "Do you like Japanese cuisine? I'd love to take you there for a good meal. My treat, of course."
Danny was certain his skull was now simply a vacant cavern where the IAB chief's remark of Nobu and Japanese cuisine ricocheted over and over. Nobu, on Hudson street. One of the most opulent, star-studded Japanese restaurants in the whole of New York city.
Hillborne tugged a card from inside his wallet. "Here's my number. I can pick you up from your place … if that's what you like."
What Danny would like was to run far, far away and hibernate in a cave for a decade. Or maybe a century.
But his lips parted to say, "I'll meet ya there."
Hillborne's mien was lit by a humongous grin. He appeared that close to leaping into the air and clicking his heels. "That's … that's great! I'll see you there then. Take care!" The man strutted back to his car, a polished, black Mercedes Benz S320 model car.
Geez, he was walloped by that? Danny was amazed he wasn't squished pancake on the road.
Danny stood like a scarecrow as he stared uncomprehendingly at Hillborne waving at him, the chief's name card flapping between his fingers. The black sedan veered around the corner and departed from view.
Oh. My. God.
What in Hades had he just done!