Atop the Broken Universal Clock
Fandom: CSI:NY
Author: Kimmychu
Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)
Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)
Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery
Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that
Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?
Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.
OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO
Author's Notes: This chapter was quite difficult for me to write, which was the main reason the update was kinda later than I liked. All I have to say about it is … extreme angst ahead. Sorry if I make anyone cry because of it. If anyone's interested, the main soundtrack I listen to when I write this particular story comes from the soundtrack for tv series, '24'. It's the one by Sean Callery, entitled 'Jack Tells Kim He's Not Coming Back.' A moving and melancholy piece.
OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO
Chapter 3
Flack was getting annoyed by the third time he had to rap his knuckles on Danny's apartment door. Annoyed, and just a tad uneasy.
It was awfully unlike Danny to not answer calls on his mobile phone. It was part of a CSI's imperative to be ready and on call at all times, unless it was their day off. Even then, there was always the chance one might be called in to work if murderers all over New York decided it was a good time for someone to die. Flack was pretty sure Danny had the caller ID thing on his phone. Which meant, there was only one explanation why he wasn't picking up calls from Flack.
A fourth time of banging on the dark red door. Flack frowned.
"Danny? It's Flack, c'mon, open up."
Nothing.
Flack chewed on his lower lip. Man, after the long day he had, he really wasn't in the mood to smash down a door with his shoulder. Danny wouldn't appreciate it anyway.
The hallway of Danny's apartment floor wasn't bright, neither was it dim. The muted, pale orange lighting created a relaxing ambience and a warm glow on the beige walls and tiled floors. Moonlight cascaded through one stained glass window at the end of the corridor, casting colorful, semi-transparent hues on the floor before it. Only Danny would pick an apartment building that had stained glass windows you'd find in a church instead.
Flack speed-dialed Danny on his mobile phone for the fifth time that evening. One of his feet tapped frenetically on the floor. The sound resounded noisily in the vacant hallway. Beeping sounds, then he was redirected to Danny's mailbox. Again.
He cursed softly under his breath. That weird, sinking feeling in his stomach was back.
Large, green eyes and a resilient grip popped into his mind out of nowhere.
Flack sucked in a breath. Shit, what if Danny wasn't answering his phone he was in trouble out there somewhere?
It had been five days since his eerie encounter with that stranger near the hot dog vendor at Central Park. Sure didn't diminish the goosebumps he felt every time he thought about the episode. His cop instincts kept telling him the guy was bad news. He might be wrong. He might be simply too paranoid, but he knew how the saying went.
Only the paranoid survived.
He thumped the door one last time, harder than he habitually did, in his apprehension.
He waited. A minute passed with no activity on the other side of the closed door.
Flack huffed and started to walk off towards the elevator, his brain already going into out-and-out homicide detective mode. He had to call Mac or Stella. If they had no clue where Danny was, then it was a suitable time to freak out.
The rattling sound of a chain lock being drawn and the door creaking open stopped Flack dead in his tracks.
" … Flack?"
Danny stood at the door in a thick, long-sleeved sweater with a round collar, faded jeans and red socks. He was rubbing absent-mindedly at his half-closed eyes, brown hair all disheveled. He uttered Flack's name again during a wide yawn, so it came out sounding more like, "Fwaack?"
Flack's first thought was, thank God, the little geek was okay. His next thought was, what the heck was Danny doing sleeping at eight in the evening? His CSI pal was such a hyperactive guy he rarely slept at all until it was past midnight or one in the morning.
"Danny!" Flack stalked back to his friend's apartment, feeling irrationally angry at the other man. "What took ya so long?"
Danny stared at him with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes. He looked like a little boy who'd been woken up long past his bedtime. "Sleepin'. Tired."
Flack's brows lowered in a scowl. Tired? This early in the night? Okay, something wasn't right here. It wasn't as if Danny hadn't slept in three days successively or something. Indeed, every night for the past five months, Danny had gone straight home after work. No nights out with the others at Sullivan's. No nights out for hoops. Not even any nights out with Flack when all Flack wanted was some coffee and chitchat with one of his best friends. Unless Flack coerced him. And Danny never ate anything in front of him. That bothered Flack more than anything else.
Crap. Had it been that long since he was here at Danny's apartment?
"We can go chow on some pizza down the street, how 'bout that? Betcha haven't had dinner yet." Flack smiled. Or at least, tried to. An alarm was blaring like crazy in his mind at the pallor of Danny's scrawny features.
Danny still appeared dazed, like he couldn't comprehend what Flack was doing at his apartment. "It's okay. I already had somethin' to eat."
Oh no, Flack couldn't let the other guy slip out of this that easy.
"C'mon, pizza, Messer! Yer favorite! Ya never turn it down." Flack prodded Danny in the shoulder. A second alarm joined the first in his head when his sharp, blue eyes detected the wince Danny endeavored to conceal. What the? That wasn't even a hard nudge.
Some fire materialized in Danny's dull eyes for a second. Flack involuntarily stiffened, ready for his friend to snap at him. Danny blinked, and whatever spark was in those cerulean eyes was gone. Flack's frown intensified. This brown-haired, blue-eyed man looked like his pal Danny Messer, but he certainly wasn't behaving like him.
Danny wordlessly shuffled away from the open door, allowing Flack to enter the apartment.
"So, how 'bout it, buddy? Maybe ya wanna have it sent here instead?"
No answer. Flack peered in the darkness and couldn't discern where the other guy had gone.
None of the apartment lights were on, except for the small lamp next to the front door that automatically came on at seven every night. The only other light Flack could see came from Danny's bedroom. Flack had been to the place so many times he knew precisely where all the light switches were, and went to flip them on.
"What … the freakin' …"
He and Danny had been friends for over five years. He was barely exaggerating when he claimed he knew the CSI better than ninety-nine percent of everyone in Danny's life, regardless of whether they were part of it or not. He hoped Danny could say the same about him. One of Danny's not so well-known traits was that he was an absolute neat freak. Most people assumed he was a naturally untidy guy due to his hyperactivity and wired personality. Flack knew better. It was most likely Danny's years of training to be a CSI that instilled some tendency in him for keeping everything orderly at all times.
What Flack was laying his eyes on now was a fucking mess. No, mess was a major understatement. Books, normally organized by alphabetical order on the enormous bookshelf in the living area, were strewn everywhere in falling piles on the floor. There were worn shirts, pants and even the random sock flung on top of the furniture in the place. Flack kicked at a balled up dress shirt on the floor next to his feet. Right, okay. He must be in some alternate universe where his Danny was a sleepy slob who looked too damn skinny for his own good. Yeah, that must be it.
"Danny?"
Flack tiptoed warily over the clutter, careful not to step on any of the books. Danny loved his books. He yelped when his shin collided painfully with a hard object. Hey, that was one of Danny's side tables that was usually on both sides of the couch. It was hidden under a rumpled short-sleeved top. He pushed the table away with a foot, glowering at it. What it was doing there out of place and in the way of Flack getting to the bedroom, the homicide detective had no idea.
In fact, he had no idea whatsoever what the hell was going on here.
"Danny? Hey, c'mon, don't leave me out here all alone."
Silence.
He continued his journey, avoiding another side table, one of the black-and-steel stools from the kitchen counter and a chair from the coffee table along the way. Geez, what was up with all this furniture blocking the way? A guy could run into one of those things and trip himself up bad. Books all over the place, Flack could get. Dirty clothes? Okay, he could let Danny off the hook on that too. Wasn't like he didn't do that himself sometimes when he got too busy. But moving furniture and leaving them randomly all over the apartment? That didn't make sense.
"I'm gonna order pepperoni and cheese, a'right?"
Flack stumbled into the bedroom, nearly colliding with the chair left in the doorway. He moved it away in irritation, then saw why Danny hadn't replied any of his questions.
The CSI had literally collapsed back into bed and fallen asleep. Just like that.
Flack stood there like a dummy for a minute or two, with a funny look on his face. It was an amalgam of a tiny hint of exasperation and a whole lot of stupefaction. He cranked his head at an angle, gaping at the sight of an unconscious Danny partially curled up on his unmade bed with his legs hanging off the edge. What the fuck?
"Dan?" Flack said. The other man remained fast asleep.
The homicide detective noted the bedroom was in about the same condition as the living area outside. However, there weren't as many books here and there. Flack also noted there was a chair right beside the bed, really near to where Danny was sleeping now. It was a bizarre place to put a chair. If he hadn't come into the room, the chair next to him would have been positioned in front of the bedroom door.
As if it was meant to be some obstacle. But, to obstruct what?
Flack quietly dragged the chair next to the bed backwards and settled himself on it. He pinched the flesh between his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Wait. All this furniture lying around was refreshing his memory of one of their earlier cases. Something to do with … that woman who was found pounding her fists into a murder victim's bloody chest. The one where he presumed from the start that she was the murderer.
Flack's blue eyes opened wide.
That was it. The Ophelia Dichiara case. The woman who was a parasomniac and walked around in her slumber without even knowing it. Stella had mentioned to him about Dichiara deliberately placing chairs and other large, hard objects around her bed at night to wake her up whenever she sleepwalked. Later, after the case was solved, Mac had told him the reason for her actions upon the murder victim that fateful night.
Dichiara had a son. He was killed in a car accident that she witnessed with her very own eyes. She'd attempted to revive him by massaging his heart, but she failed. Since then, she had never quite moved on from the loss of her son, reliving the event over and over each night in her dreams.
She couldn't let it go, because her guilt over not being able to save him stopped her from letting go.
That insight caused Flack to jerk in his seat. Flack didn't realize his lips were contorting in a soundless prayer as he pulled up one leg of Danny's jeans little by little. He intensely hoped he was going to be proven wrong in his suspicions. The blue, coarse cloth slid easily up Danny's slim leg to the knee.
Flack's eyelids lowered over suddenly hot eyes.
The blue and black bruises on the pale skin were stark under the exposure to the bedroom ceiling light. All of them had flat, angular edges to them, revealing to Flack that Danny surely got them after running into those squarish, side tables or one of the chairs. Some were faded, light purple in color, and some were almost black and dark bluish and inflamed. It hurt Flack just to look at them.
"What are ya doin' to yerself, huh?" Flack said in a small, unhappy voice. He placed one hand against Danny's cool cheek. It was unbelievable. Flack felt like he was stuck in a steaming sauna in the apartment, and Danny's skin was like ice. "What are ya doin' to yerself?"
The homicide detective rested his hand on Danny's cheek and lower jaw for a couple more minutes, rubbing the sunken cheek with a thumb. He then tenderly raised Danny's legs so they lay on top of the bed along with the rest of his body. He stared at the bruises on the CSI's shin for a long time.
Should he call Mac and inform his supervisor about this? What was he going to say?
Hey, Mac, guess what I found out? Danny's gone from a neat freak to a total slob whose apartment looks worse than a New York trash dump. Oh, he looks like an anorexic scarecrow too. But hey, here's the best bit! I think he's sleepwalkin' just like that Dichiara woman, remember her? Yeah, and I think he's sufferin' from nightmares 'bout his brother and the Tanglewood Boys too and who knows what the fuck else. And if we don't do somethin' 'bout him not eatin' any food, Danny's gonna DIE. Whaddaya make a' THAT, Mac?
Flack covered his face with his hands. Oh God, was he the only person on the team who realized how close to the brink Danny was? Flack got up and tugged the woolen blanket on the bed over and around the oblivious man, until only Danny's head on the pillow showed.
He sniffed, and blinked a few times. Okay, food. Food. He had to get Danny to eat some food.
The lanky homicide detective shrugged off his mauve jacket and tossed it on the couch as he marched towards the kitchen, clearing his path by kicking anything in the way. It felt good to take out his anger on heavy inanimate things. He briskly rummaged through all the cupboards in the kitchen, coming up with a measly three tins of Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and one tin of spaghetti-o. Leaving those on the counter, he opened the fridge.
Gryaah. Flack grimaced and promptly threw away the spoilt bottle of what used to be fresh milk. It was already curdling and smelling pretty awful. It must have been in there for months. The only other food item was the salad he'd bought after picking Danny up from the hospital that night. It wasn't exactly rotten mush, but it looked yucky nonetheless. Geez, Danny hadn't eaten since then? That was impossible.
Flack opened the freezer. Nothing except white ice. He closed it.
Well. Guess that left soup or spaghetti-o.
He deftly got the spaghetti-o out of the can and scooped it into a glass bowl. Thank goodness Danny had an operational microwave. The machine emitted a vibrating hum, the only sound perceptible in the apartment. Flack ran long fingers through his dark, shorn hair. First, he was gonna get Danny to eat the spaghetti-o, then he'll call for pizza or Chinese takeout. He didn't feel right about leaving Danny alone.
There was a shrill ding! Flack quickly took out the heated bowl and placed it onto a plate so he could carry it without burning his hand. Using a spoon, he tasted some of the spaghetti-o to see if it was warmed enough for consumption. Okay, it was fine. Danny should be able to eat this tiny bit of food.
The tall detective returned to Danny's side, holding onto the bowl and plate with one hand and gently shaking Danny's shoulder with the other.
"Danny? Danny, wake up. I made ya somethin' to eat."
Danny made a vague noise. Flack shook him harder.
"Dan-"
With a loud cry, Danny shot up in bed, blue eyes wide and filled with terror. The CSI's gaze darted here and there, seeking an invisible threat only he could see. Danny gasped when his huge eyes fell on Flack standing next to his bed.
Flack had been taken aback by Danny's violent reaction, but he didn't allow it to show. He stayed immobile, sending his friend a reassuring smile.
"Hey, buddy. It's me. Ya let me in just now, remember?"
Danny stared at him in bewilderment, then around his bedroom, appearing like a disoriented, abandoned puppy. The look made Flack want to strangle some lousy perp in a really, really vicious method. Preferably that arrogant Tanglewood sonofabitch rotting in Sing Sing.
"Don?"
"Yeah." Flack sat down on the chair next to the bed. "See? I heated up some spaghetti-o. Ya always like eatin' it with pizza." He stretched out the arm holding the bowl on plate in Danny's direction.
Danny was staring at the yellow and red meal as if Flack had just handed him toxic sludge straight from the sewers.
"If you're not that hungry, ya can still eat a mouthful or two, right?" Something in Flack's brain was yelling at him to be stern with the other man on this eating issue and not go all softie. If Danny could eat all the spaghetti-o, he was in the clear. If not … Flack wasn't going to think about that unless that was the way things went.
Danny stared at the bowl with frightened eyes for a few more seconds, then shifted his piercing gaze onto Flack. A colossal hunk of ice grew in the depths of Flack's belly at the blatant dread in Danny's eyes.
His independent CSI pal, who hadn't even been afraid of a murderer pointing a loaded gun directly into his face, was scared shitless of a bowl of spaghetti-o.
Flack thought he ought to be laughing right now, except all he really wanted to do was weep.
No. He had to be strong. For both of them.
"C'mon, Danny. I eat half and you eat half."
He moved the bowl closer to Danny. Maybe he was seeing things, but Flack swore the expression on Danny's pale visage was transforming from one of fear to one of ravaging hunger. Flack held his breath.
Two trembling hands reached for the bowl and spoon. Danny's hands were quivering so severely Flack was half-afraid the guy was going to spill the spaghetti-o all over the bed. Again, Flack's brain was warning him it would be a bad move to assist Danny at this point. If Danny was going to eat, he had to do it on his own accord, not because Flack pushed the food in his face.
Danny's blue eyes were gigantic on his emaciated face. In any other circumstances, Flack would be jesting with his friend about them being as big as those belonging to that actor Elijah Wood. Here and now, they froze Flack to the spot, causing his insides to roil in an unpleasant way. As chaotic as it was within Flack, the homicide detective stayed calm and amicable on the outside, smiling at Danny once more.
Danny broke eye contact after a couple of seconds. The CSI stared at the yellow spaghetti-o and thick, red tomato sauce in the bowl in his hands. Then, in a shocking move, he thrust the bowl at his mouth and gobbled up everything in it in less than four mouthfuls.
Flack's blue eyes were as wide as Danny's. Whoa, he so did not expect that.
He should be happy, right? Danny ate the food. So why was the oh-so-talkative smart organ in his skull still telling him something was off?
Flack hurriedly took the bowl and spoon from Danny. The smaller man wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Danny looked … satisfied. It just didn't make sense. Danny wouldn't be looking like a skeleton if he enjoyed eating.
"That was good, huh?"
Danny slowly lifted his head to look at Flack. Whatever satisfaction Flack saw on Danny's mien had instantaneously vanished. Oh boy, something was really wrong.
"Hey, Da-"
All of a sudden, Danny clamped a hand over his mouth. His upper body impulsively hunched over. Flack chucked the used utensils on the floor and immediately shot to his feet, muscles tensed in alarm. Fuck, déjà vu was slamming Flack in the chest like a ten-ton steel container.
It was that night replaying itself again, like an appalling cheap movie.
This time, Flack was smart enough to seize Danny by the arms and virtually haul the retching man out of bed and off his feet to the bathroom. The homicide detective was exceptionally thankful he'd cleared a path through the mess earlier on. Even so, Flack almost lost his footing three feet from the bathroom door, slipping perilously on a thin book.
Danny barely made it to the porcelain toilet bowl before he removed his hand and threw up everything he ate in one squelchy expulsion. Flack, leaning against the doorway and panting slightly from the exertion of running with a full-grown man in arms, twisted his head away, eyes scrunched shut. The sour reek made even Flack nauseous. Every gagging and vomiting sound emanating from the bathroom seemed to pulsate through Flack's entire being and generate aches in places he never knew could.
An eternity passed.
Flack heard a heavy thud, a raspy cough. Flush of the toilet. Toilet paper ripped from its roll. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them, inhaled sharply then entered the bathroom.
Danny sat with knees drawn to his chest on the tiled floor, dabbing at his lips with some toilet paper. His weary, blue eyes were watery. There were tear tracks on his pasty cheeks. Incredibly, the CSI looked worse than he already did.
"Danny."
The shorter detective sniffled. Flack itched terribly to punch something at Danny's tremulous parody for a smile.
"I-it's okay, Don … just … just a stomach flu-"
Flack's vision turned blood red.
"Oh yeah? What kinda fuckin' stomach flu lasts for months, huh?" Through the crimson haze, he saw Danny recoil under his harsh retort. "HUH!"
When Danny didn't reply, Flack grabbed one skinny wrist. "This is NOT normal, Danny! Normal people don't look like they're starvin' to death or vomit after EATIN' SOMETHIN'!"
Flack's sight became even more blurry with dampness as Danny struggled weakly in his grasp and couldn't break out of it. "Look at ya, ya can't even get yerself outta a handhold!" In his incensed misery, Flack shook Danny like a rag doll.
"When are ya gonna stop LYING TO ME!"
Danny somehow gathered a burst of energy and shoved Flack away from him using his hands. Flack landed hard on the sink, hip bruised by the unyielding mass. Their pants echoed discordantly in the small bathroom, Danny's sounding more moist.
"There's nothin' wrong … with me." Danny's bony hands were balled into furious fists. "I can deal with it."
Danny's contradicting statements merely served to infuriate Flack more. "You say nothin's wrong, and then ya say ya can deal with it? Are ya listenin' to yerself, Danny? You know you've got a problem, but ya don't wanna face it!" Flack's handsome features furrowed into a frustrated, sorrowful scowl. "Don't you get it? I want to HELP YOU!"
"I DON'T NEED YER HELP!" Danny's teeth were bared in a rictus of desperation and aggravation. "I TOLD YA, I CAN DEAL WITH IT MYSELF! I DON'T NEED YOU!"
Flack reeled against the sink, suddenly incapable of drawing a breath. My God, was this what it felt like when his heart stopped? It hurt beyond any agony he had ever felt in his life.
"Fine."
Flack pushed himself away from the sink so that he loomed over Danny still sitting on the floor. For some reason, he'd lost control of the muscles in the lower area of his face. His vision had reduced to hazy, colorful blobs, as if he was peering through a distorted glass. Danny was simply an ashen blob of brown, black, blue and red. But then, even then, the pain in Danny's cerulean eyes registered on his mind so clearly.
"Fine. Ya wanna play tough guy? Fine. You deal with your own shit." Flack swung an arm in an enraged motion. "I'm outta here."
The tall homicide detective stormed out of the bathroom, snatching his jacket from the couch and fiercely kicked at a chair on his way to the apartment front door. Flack fumbled with the doorknob, then slammed the door behind him loud enough for the sound to reverberate across the whole hallway. Right now, he couldn't give a shit if he disturbed the other tenants. Besides, he was seriously dying for a bloody fight.
If Flack had stayed a moment longer, he would have seen a very forlorn and torn up Danny wrap his thin arms around even thinner legs, face crumpled inordinately while he cried strident, raw sobs. Rocking himself back and forth with the dawning realization he might have just lost the one person who truly cared for him.
It wouldn't have made a difference. The tears Flack was weeping himself as he drove aimlessly on the roads of New York obscured his sight to the point he wouldn't have been able to see anything anyway.