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 'Heroes', 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: Whee, update! Just to let ya know, the entire outline for this story is finally polished and complete. So, according to my calculations, it'll end in about … 12-15 chapters more, give or take. Heh, okay, the majority of DannyFlack angst will unfold in the next chapter, but no worries, plenty of it here too. And hey. Thanks for all the reviews, guys. Appreciate it!
OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO
Chapter 6
"Danny, can you please set the table?"
"Okay, mommy."
Danny went to the kitchen cabinet and took out the usual dinner utensils and plates, those blue and white ones that mommy liked. He then picked out the usual table mats as well, old and faded in color but familiar. He felt her tousling his hair affectionately, smiling down at him.
"You're a good boy," she said. Mommy was now holding a large aluminum pan of lasagna straight from the oven. "I'll get the knives, okay? You remember what happened the last time."
Danny stretched up his hand and showed her his bandaged finger. The beige-colored plaster was a few days old and already peeling at the edges.
"That's right, you cut your finger!" Mommy placed the lasagna on the kitchen table.
All the plates, forks, spoons and knives were already placed in their regular positions on the table.
Danny frowned, suckling on the tip of his bandaged finger. That was funny. He didn't remember setting it up.
"Louie! Alessandro! Dinner is ready!" Mommy yelled in the direction of the living room where his big brother and daddy were watching television. "Louie! Why can't you help me like your six-year-old little brother?"
Danny smiled at the sight of his older brother at the kitchen entrance, dressed in a white tank top and rumpled jeans. He climbed up onto his seat at the table, planting himself on it and swinging his legs back and forth.
"Aw, Ma, girls are s'pposed ta work in the kitchen," Louie drawled, taking the cigarette from between his lips and blowing out a circle of smoke into the air.
Louie promptly received a hard smack to the head from their mommy.
"This is my kitchen, and you do not smoke in here!" She plucked the lit cigarette from his hand and chucked it into the sink, where it fizzled out.
The older Messer son simply rolled his eyes, made some funny faces and strutted to the table, playfully knuckling Danny on the top of his head.
Danny giggled. Louie was the coolest. Someday, he wanted to be just like his big brother.
Daddy came into the kitchen next, also smoking a cigarette. He loomed over Danny, a colossal, dark and comforting figure. Danny squeezed one eye shut at his cheek being affectionately pinched between his dad's calloused thumb and forefinger.
"Alessandro!"
Daddy puffed on the last of his cigarette, then went to the sink and stubbed it out inside it. Mommy made an annoyed noise. Both Danny and Louie snickered.
"Geez, cut me some slack, woman. Let a man smoke after a hard day's work." Daddy had a gruff, deep voice that sounded like a bear's growl.
Everyone sat at their customary places at the table. Danny already had his fork and spoon ready in hands, waiting for mommy to dish out the piping hot lasagna.
"Pa, I need the car t'night," Louie said. He sniffed once.
"Wha' for?"
Louie shrugged defensively. "To see the boys, ya know."
Danny chewed distractedly on a giant mouthful of his food while he watched his big brother and dad talk, with wide, blue eyes.
"What, ya mean Lucio Sassone's boy?"
"Yeah, yeah, Sonny, ya know."
"You're not going anywhere until you finish your homework." Mommy looked angry. "And you shouldn't even be driving yet!"
"Aww, Ma, c'mooon …"
Danny's munching motions slowed.
"Edith, let 'im go."
Mommy shifted her glare onto daddy. "Oh, I know why you want Louie to hang out with that Sassone boy. Huh, you're thinking to get in with Lucio Sassone, aren't you?" She gesticulated animatedly with her hands. "I don't like him. I don't like Louie hanging out with his son. They're in the mob."
Daddy looked away from mommy and chomped on a mouthful of lasagna. "That's 'xactly why we oughta get in with 'em."
Peeking up from above his half-eaten dinner at his parents, Danny slowly put down his used utensils. Uh oh, mommy and daddy were going to fight again.
"Are you insane? They're in the MOB!"
"Yeah? So fuckin' what? Ya wanna live the way we do the rest a' our damn lives, huh? Who knows, we get ta know them, we could get good business, get some fuckin' cash comin' in for a change!"
Daddy flung his fork onto the table. It hit with a sharp noise that made Danny wince.
"Nothing ever ends well with the likes of them, you know that!"
He felt fingers tugging at his floppy brown hair.
"C'mon, Danny, let's get the hell outta here." Louie wasn't happy either.
Danny slipped off the chair, running to his big brother's side and wrapping his arms around one of Louie's legs. He felt a large hand ruffling his hair. They walked side by side …
Into a dark alley behind one of the Tanglewood boy's usual haunts, a seedy restaurant and bar.
"Looouuiiiiieee, 'bout time ya joined us, ya bastard."
Danny shrugged his shoulders, hunching inside his coat from the winter cold.
Zabo. Yeah, the guy's name was Salvador Zabo. One of the Tanglewood boys, like his brother.
"Who's the kid?" It was Sonny, chucking a half-smoked cigarette onto the grimy road and crushing it under his boot. He and Zabo were leaning against a black, sleek sports car that would probably take Pa five whole lifetimes just to earn enough money to buy it.
Louie slapped him on the back. "This here's my little brother, Danny."
Sonny swaggered towards them, eyeballing Danny from head to toe as he did. Louie and the Tanglewood headman smacked their hands together in a two-handed fist in greeting.
"Daaanny. Yeah, I remember yer older brother talkin' 'bout ya." Sonny stood before him, staring down at him with cold, calculative eyes.
Danny kept his back straight, staring back into the eyes of the man whom even his brother feared. Still, it was more than the winter chill that made shivers run up and down his spine. He'd noticed the inconspicuous gun hanging at Sonny's waist under his jacket.
"Louie says you're gonna be a baseball player when ya grow up, hahn?"
Danny didn't even blink. "Yeah. Gonna play in the big leagues."
Sonny cackled, a sound more abrasive than the icy breeze blowing around them. "Guess ya must be good with a bat, eh, Dannyboy?"
His brother Louie was still as a statue. "Sonny …"
Sonny inclined downwards and pushed his face into Danny's. The Tanglewood boy's breath reeked of beer and smoke. Upclose, Sonny's eyes appeared like a corpse's. Dead.
"Yeah. Someday, I could put yer arm to good use …" Sonny cackled again.
"C'mon, Sonny, leave 'im alone. He's just a kid."
Danny couldn't help releasing a small sigh of relief when Sonny stepped away and shoved his face into Louie's instead. If he had to stare into those black eyes a second more, his soul might have been utterly sucked out of his body.
"So why the fuck did ya bring him here then, huh?"
Louie's expression was unperturbed and bold. "'Cos he's my brother. Brat needed somebody to watch him t'night."
The two Tanglewood boys locked glares for a few moments, neither backing down. Sonny appeared like a rabid lion, only barely restraining himself from going into a frenzy. Louie's expression never changed. Danny saw Sonny's hand move towards his gun.
His breath hitched.
Over a dozen feet away, Zabo approached with tentative steps, facial features contorted into a frown.
All of a sudden, Sonny threw his head back and laughed.
Zabo instantly relaxed, smirking.
"A'right, a'right, Messer, just thinkin' aloud, that's all. No harm in that."
Louie's brows lowered in a scowl at that.
"Danny." Sonny motioned for him to come closer. "C'mere."
He glanced at Louie, then shuffled up to the Tanglewood leader. His eyes were trained on Sonny's hand gripping the handle of his gun.
"Ya wanna be a Tanglewood boy, ah, Danny?" Sonny made a gesture with his head in Louie's direction. "Wanna be like yer big brother, hahn?"
The gun's metallic surface gleamed under the stark illumination from the sports car's headlights.
"Ya wanna be a Tanglewood boy, ya gotta be a real man."
Danny gasped when Sonny seized his wrist and thrust the weapon into his open hand. The metal felt extremely cold.
"What the fuck, Sonn-"
Danny cried out as he was roughly manhandled into aiming the gun …
Straight at the center of his tied up, kneeling brother's forehead.
'See, Dannyboy, the way I do it is …" Sonny was standing behind him, maintaining a painful, tight grip on his wrists, whispering into his ear.
"I always aim the barrel of the gun a little lower …"
Gradually, the barrel moved downwards until it was pointing at the tip of Louie's nose. Danny's hands trembled violently. He swallowed down a lump in his throat. He tried his hardest to put down the gun, but his limbs wouldn't obey him. His brother's brown eyes were huge with terror and shock, scorching him with the power of a thousand suns.
"'Cos I like seein' the bullet hole right in between the eyes, see? This gun a' mine here likes to kick up a bit."
Danny blinked erratically under the blinding white light that shone down on them from all sides. Wait, this place … he knew this place -
"C'mooon, Louie, ain't ya got anythin' to say to me, hah?"
The Giants stadium. He was at the Giants stadium in East Rutherford -
Behind him, Sonny snarled like a beast.
"Ya fuckin' traitor. Ya wired me, you sonofabitch."
Danny started to hyperventilate. His hands shook even harder, the gun relentlessly aimed at his brother's face. No, no, it wasn't his brother who was killed, it was … it was that teenager Sassone kidnapped from the Bronx -
Sonny's lips were so close Danny felt them moving against his ear.
"Now's yer chance to show me whether you're worthy of bein' one a' us, Dannyboy."
Against his will, his finger began to tighten on the gun's trigger.
Danny's head shook frantically from side to side, face twisted into a horrified grimace. Before his very eyes, Louie's face was turning dark red and black and swollen from streams of blood and forming contusions.
No, nonononononono -
He heard a resounding click.
"NonoNO -"
Sonny grinned, his face a devil's mask in shadows.
"Bang."
Danny screamed, searing wetness splattering his face, neck and chest, ferociously wrenching himself away from a howling Sonny …
And came awake with a loud yell, sprawled on the floor of his living room, his face and upper body wet with water from the formerly half-filled cup he'd left on his coffee table.
For a few minutes, he lay there on his side, blinking the moisture out of his eyes, giddy with disorientation. His dark blue sweater, where it was damp, stuck to his chest. It made him shiver anew.
Home. He was at home. He was safe. And Louie was -
Danny closed his eyes, resting his head on his arm.
Fuck. One of those bad ones again. Where he always inevitably ended up murdering his brother in some way or another. Those were the worst.
He struggled to a sitting position when the wetness and chill was too uncomfortable to bear. He groaned, pressing a hand against his right hip. Great. Another bruise to add to his already damaged body. Just what he needed.
His hand instinctively went up to the healing wound high up on his left temple. The stitches had been taken out a few days ago by his doctor, a nice guy called Dr. Koshy. He'd barely glanced at the black-and-blue area. He didn't really want to know how bad it actually appeared. Half his face was smarting enough to tell him he was far from looking his usual self.
Really? You haven't looked like yourself in a very long time, a voice that sounded a lot like Flack said inside his head.
When he was satisfied his tumble from the couch hadn't aggravated the mending head injury, the CSI pushed himself to his feet and shambled wearily to his bedroom. He ignored the mess of dirty clothes, strewn books and the random chair all over the floor. Just looking at it all made him exhausted to the bones.
And cold. He was forever cold.
He pulled out another long-sleeved, thick sweater from his closet, staring with half-lidded, glassy eyes at the open drawer. Shit. He was running out of clean clothes. He was going to have to drag all his used clothes to the laundry again. He hated doing that. People always stared at him.
Danny sighed, tugging off the wet sweater. He made very sure not to look into the mirror as he threw it into a plastic basket beside the bedroom door, which was already half-filled with other worn clothes. He was shuddering even more by the time he put on the fresh and dry sweater. A part of his brain was telling him it was all just in his head, that he was merely thinking it was infernally cold when it was, in truth, hot as hell itself. It made him huff a muted laugh.
He trudged back to the living room, curling up on his battered, comfy couch and swathing himself tight in the afghan wrap he usually placed there. He felt really tired, but he was doing everything in his power to not fall asleep again. Not if he was going to live through another nightmare like that anytime soon.
The television was switched on.
Danny's eyelids flickered.
It was the evening news. And Mac was on screen.
"Detective Taylor! Detective Taylor! Are there any updates on New York's most notorious serial killer yet?"
"Is it true that you and your team have been unable to find any DNA evidence of the Body Hacker at all at any of his crime scenes?"
Mac was striding swiftly for the entrance to CSI headquarters, being trailed by a huge rabble of reporters and cameramen from various news networks. They were ruthless in chasing after him, eventhough it was clear the detective had no intentions to speak with any of them.
"Detective! Do you have any idea if or when the Body Hacker will strike again?"
"Detective Taylor! It's been nearly two months since the Body Hacker first struck, and the police haven't caught him until today. Is he going to continue terrorizing the city?"
Mac finally halted in his tracks in front of the familiar large, glass doors, and swiveled around to confront the crowd.
Danny's stomach sank at the sight of his boss' and mentor's scowling visage. The last time he'd seen Mac in person, the former Marine had been very, very angry, and for good reason.
The intense disappointment in Mac's hazel eyes at Danny quitting the Mount Sinai eating disorder program, not even a day into it, almost hurt as much as hearing the news that his brother Louie had been discovered lying in an alley, broken and bleeding to death.
The unending camera flashes washed out the color from Mac's mien, causing him to look very pale.
"The Body Hacker may still be out there, and his murders gruesome … but he is, nonetheless, just a man. We are continuously doing the very best we can to find him and bring him to justice," Mac said in a composed tone and demeanor. "And believe me, we will get him."
With that, Mac turned away and entered the building, closing the doors shut on a teeming throng of reporters hungering for more answers and comments.
Danny picked up the remote and shut off the television. He huddled deeper into the afghan wrap, lying back down on the sofa in a semi-fetal position on his side. His stomach suddenly growled audibly, and he ignored it, like he ignored everything else around him.
Mac's voice had echoed deafeningly in his living room, when the man had paid him a totally unexpected visit at his apartment over a week ago.
"You quit? You quit the program, Danny?"
Saddened hazel eyes, boring two holes into his skull.
Nodding, eyes averted.
"After all this time … if I never called up the hospital and found out the truth, you'd never have told me, would you? You'd have let me believe you were still there in the program instead … instead of …" Frustrated sweep of arms over the cluttered living area. "All this."
Stillness, stillness that said a thousand words.
Anger filling up his boss' voice. "Do you have any idea at all how dangerous your current condition is?" Volume rising. "Danny, if you continue this way, you are going to DIE."
"I know what Dr. Koshy said." Small voice. Shrinking under the ire of the man he looked up to so much.
"So. Why. Did. You. Quit?"
"Because they can't help me."
His mentor's visage screwing up. "Danny -"
"Because no one can." Staring with crushed blue eyes into wide, crestfallen hazel ones.
"Not even you."
Danny hid his face in the soft afghan wrap, eyes squeezed shut. He kept telling himself it was the water from before that was making the cloth over his face moist. Why did he say that? Why was he so fucking stupid? He was damn lucky Mac hadn't fired him yet. He had driven Flack away. Now, he'd successfully driven away the one other man who might have possibly and earnestly cared about his welfare.
Fantastic.
He got up again, holding the afghan wrap around his shoulders and torso, heading for the kitchen. It was painful for him to kneel on his knees. The contusions that were there hadn't completely faded away yet, not to mention the ones all over his shins. He didn't even want to think about the new ones he received after he fell down those stairs at the Carpenter crime scene.
Hell, at least the damn fall made him forget everything that happened that day. From what Hawkes had mentioned about it when he visited Danny at the hospital, there hadn't been anything worth remembering. Unless Danny liked thinking about a dead woman's rotting innards.
The imagery from that alone drove the CSI to frenetically rummage around in the cupboard under the sink, until he got his hands on that bottle of Jack Daniels he hid there. It was three-quarters full, the bronze-colored liquid sloshing around inside as he uncapped it and took a substantial gulp. The alcohol burned his throat like fire, and he coughed scratchily, tears overflowing his blue eyes. Damn, the stuff was strong.
Danny couldn't be bothered to get a glass, simply taking the whole bottle with him back to the living room. He nudged away the empty cup at the base of the couch with one sock-covered foot, taking another swig. The Flack-voice in his head spoke up again.
Eatin', Messer. Not drinkin' freakin' alcohol.
In childish defiance, he held the bottle to his lips and drank some more. It was beginning to burn less and make the pain inside and out go away.
No, it ain't makin' the pain go away. You just think it does. Stop it, Danny.
Danny let the capped Jack Daniels land on its side on the coffee table with a piercing clang. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, told the grating voice in his mind to get the fuck lost. And then he laughed aloud at himself, the sound bordering on manic.
Wow, gee. He was having fights with an imaginary voice in his head that sounded a lot like one of his best friends. Or was that former best friend?
The CSI covered his sore eyes with a hand. The whole place was spinning.
Before the voice in his brain yapped once more, he let out an acute cry of fury. The sound reverberated in the apartment.
He covered his ears instead, scrunching his eyes shut.
Yep. He was officially fucking insane.
Not that he didn't know that already for ages. His last girlfriend was more than happy to remind him of that right before she dumped him months ago. Except he was still convinced she was the fucking crazy one. What kind of woman hopped into bed with a guy just because he kinda looked like her ex and had the same name, and then expected him to be like the ex? Shit.
Danny felt the powerful alcohol roiling around in his empty stomach, making him feel sick, but not in the typical throwing up way. He slid back into his original semi-fetal position on the sofa, curling up under the afghan wrap. He sniffled.
His head hurt. His legs hurt. His eyes hurt. Everything hurt.
His eyelids fluttered.
So tired. Maybe he'd feel better if he slept some more. He didn't hurt in his sleep, even with the nightmares plaguing him.
Danny's blue eyes closed.
In the silence, a single name was murmured from the lips of the CSI, a hushed plea for help from a blue-eyed man who wasn't there to hear it.
OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO
Flack's teeth were grinding together as he parked his car outside Danny's apartment building. Today, unlike the previous days of the week, had been much better. Cases were simple and clear cut. The perps had been caught and duly punished. No children were dead. That was a good thing in Flack's books, any day, any time.
Today had been a good day. Yet, there was a sudden bitterness developing inside him once he was driving down the street where Danny's place was located.
He made a rumbling sound in his throat, thick eyebrows low in a scowl. Today had been a good day, a nice day. An all-around, he-wished-it-was-like-this-at-work-everyday kind of day. And all it had taken to ruin his good day was one sentence from a stoic Mac.
"Danny quit the program."
He sat in his car, staring at the security-locked front door of the apartment building for a while. For the first time since their friendship began, he had no idea about how to approach the guy who used to be his closest friend. Last time he was here at Danny's apartment … Flack scratched at his neck above his tie, frown intensifying. That night had ended bad. Real bad. And that awful day at the Sandra Carpenter murder scene had been worse.
The homicide detective sighed heavily, and got out of his car, holding a plastic bag that carried a large, closed box of pepperoni pizza. He had no clue how Danny was going to react to seeing him again after the past weeks of going incognito on the guy. The statement he made to Stella that evening at the hospital after Danny's accident struck him hard now. He'd sworn he was going to stick to the CSI like super glue until his friend was alright.
Well. That was something of a problem if he never visited Danny once since Danny woke up on the second day of his stay at Mount Sinai.
Flack's fingers moved automatically over the numbers of the front door's security keypad. He'd committed the security passcode to memory immediately the moment Danny informed him of it so many years ago. Geez, he was going to have to talk with the superintendent of the place. Leaving the passcode the same for years was not good for safety.
He unconsciously fidgeted with the plastic bag handles wound around his fingers while he waited for the elevator to go up to Danny's floor. He'd be a liar if he said he didn't feel guilty about not visiting Danny all this time. In fact, he felt like absolute crap about it. And he sure didn't have the excuse of not being fond of hospitals anymore, as Danny apparently walked out of the place over two weeks ago without anyone's knowledge until Mac called up the hospital.
Geez, fer cryin' out loud, his mind said. You're not his mommy. He's not yer responsibility.
You're his friend and he's your friend, his heart said. He needs you now, more than ever.
Flack stepped out of the elevator, sauntering towards Danny's apartment. He had a small smirk on his lips.
Heh. Gavin always did say he followed his heart too much for his own good.
For a minute, his hand froze in mid-action of knocking on Danny's apartment door, his knuckles facing the dark red wood. What was he going to say to the guy? Hell, what was he going to say without sounding like a complete asshole?
At the realization, he actually considered turning back and leaving. Then he figuratively kicked himself in the ass. Fuck it. Don Flack, Jr. was no coward.
He rapped his knuckles on the door, calling out Danny's name.
"Danny! It's Flack."
The tall detective waited.
No answer.
He sucked in a quick breath, then knocked once more.
"Danny! It's Don … I got some pizza here."
Silence.
Flack sighed loudly. Well, he should have expected he'd be disregarded. He couldn't blame Danny for doing that. He deserved it anyway.
But still. He had to try one more time. Danny might be sound asleep. Like the last time. He knocked on the door again.
"Dan? Can we talk?" He bit his lip. "Please?"
Nothing.
He threw up one hand in resignation, ready to walk away before he seriously pissed off Danny or something. Somehow, his feet wouldn't budge. He stared at the apartment door's knob, itching to jiggle it.
Flack resisted the urge for a second, then reached out and clutched the metallic door knob. He twisted it.
And the door opened up.
He stopped breathing, blue eyes wide. What the hell? Danny never left his front door unchained, much less unlocked.
The first thing that popped into his mind was an image of a giant cobra snake, hissing, its forked tongue flitting in and out, tasting the air. Its green eyes void and deadly. Wait. Cobras didn't have green eyes.
Not like those of that creepy guy.
The hair on the back of Flack's neck was instantly standing on end, his senses heightened at their peak. He quietly placed the box of pizza next to the ajar door, one hand pulling out his gun. He carefully pushed the door to open wider with the other, and warily stepped inside.
It was dim. The only light in the whole place came from the lamp next to the front door, and another that was turned on in the living area. A short, rectangular lamp that emanated warm light onto a huddled, slumbering figure on the couch.
Danny was okay.
Flack released a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, reholstering his weapon. Man, he kept getting more scares like this, he was going to keel over from a heart attack long before his time. He hurriedly retrieved the box of pizza outside, came back in and locked the apartment door, putting the chain lock in place.
He was pleasantly surprised when he switched on the main lights. The place was cleaner. Sure, it was still quite a mess, but it was cleaner by miles. The amount of used clothes lying around was significantly less than what he'd seen for himself before. Some of the books that used to be all over the floor were back in their places on the bookshelf.
On his way to the kitchen, he shifted one of the stools back to where it belonged at the kitchen counter. He left the pizza on said counter, shaking his head at the other stools still left here and there between where he was and the living room. Less dirty clothes, less book piles, but the furniture obstacle course remained.
Ah, well, two out of three wasn't too bad.
His gut instincts told him to check out the trash. A simple, black bin was next to the sink, and Flack removed the cover with its movable flap to reveal opened, empty cans at the bottom. He plucked each one out to better see what they once contained. Hmm. Spaghetti-o. Various Campbell soups. Canned fruits. Flack's cerulean eyes widened at one particular one that used to hold cocktail sausages.
Damn. Danny was eating again.
A smile spread across the homicide detective's handsome mien, then it diminished rapidly. The open and empty cans were proof the CSI had attempted to eat more. However, it didn't necessarily mean the guy didn't puke it all up again. There was no way Flack could tell if Danny did that or not without asking his friend directly. He tossed the cans back into the bin and resealed the cover on top.
Flack treaded softly towards the sofa where Danny slept soundly. The shorter man was curled up on his side under his cream-colored afghan wrap, with only his head showing. He was sleeping on his right side, so Flack had full view of the discolored bruising on the upper left side of Danny's face. There was definitely going to be a scar on the guy's left temple, albeit a faint one. Mottled bruises surrounded the closed up wound. There were small contusions beside the left eye where Danny's spectacles had snapped against and injured that part of his face. Apart from that, the man actually looked better.
The taller detective touched the sleeping man on the head gently. Flack wanted to feel angry about Danny giving up on the eating disorder program. He wanted to be furious that Danny was running away from the problem. He wanted to be upset that Danny had become the one thing he thought his friend would never be. A quitter.
But all he felt at that moment, while he gazed at the boniness of his best friend's face, the dark rings encircling deep-set eyes, was immeasurable sorrow.
Flack pulled the afghan wrap closer around Danny's shoulder and neck. Violence and coercion were certainly not the answers to the issue at hand. The homicide detective learnt precisely that from his past. People who truly loved someone would never abuse or force their loved ones into submitting to their expectations.
Flack scanned the living area, and abruptly stilled when he laid his eyes on the transparent bottle of whisky on the coffee table. The Jack Daniels bottle was less than half full. Whatever good feelings he had from discovering Danny was eating again quickly flew out the window.
Danny starving himself was bad enough. Adding strong alcohol consumption to the mix was a major disaster just waiting to explode.
The tall detective scowled deeply, grabbing the glass bottle and stomping over to the trash bin to hurl it inside. It got stuck in the opening of the bin cover, jutting out like a miniature cannon. He growled, half-tempted to use his foot to pound it in.
The tiny cough that floated to his ears caused his wrath to disintegrate on the spot.
Flack rushed back to the living area, kneeling down in front of the couch.
He gulped visibly.
Danny's blue eyes were open.