|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 04:06:00
|Entry tags:||ff-fandom: without a trace, ff-length: 500 to 1k, ff-rating: all, ff-type: slash|
wat/ fear dust down my throat
Title: fear dust down my throat
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG, swearing and omfg the WAFF, it buuurns.
Theme & Community: August 6th 08, Twenty-seven names for tears, 31_days
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.
Original Post: here
This gesticulating wildly thing that Martin is doing must be taken from him, because he's never seen the man so expressive in his life. Toss of hands here, sweep of an arm there, and you have a wind-milling FBI agent who is very likely to knock over the IV stand if he continues on like this.
"Hey, Martin, calm down. You're going to break the room," he says with forced amusement. Because he isn't really finding this funny, more like disturbing, and it makes him think of what-ifs and hopes plus dreams equal something that is never going to happen, which he really shouldn't be pondering while high on narcotics.
Martin ignores his request and just stabs a finger in Jack's direction with a snarl. "Why didn't you shoot the bastard before he got to him? He was pointing a gun, with his fucking finger on the trigger, and you just yelled at him until he put two bullets in Danny!"
He fights the urge to just bury his head in his hands, and tries to shift his leg instead. Nope, still numbed from the balls of lead saying how-do-you-do to his flesh. So he can't jump up and attack Martin for being such an ass when he has no right to be.
He settles for groaning in dismay, and Jack takes that as a sign to not reply to the on-a-rampage Fitzgerald with anything more than a haughty glare. And then he leaves them alone. With no one else around.
Now he wishes he just let them kill each other.
Martin sinks into the chair beside his hospital bed and leans back with his hands over his eyes. Not exactly what he would do in this situation, but he agrees that not seeing any evil would be preferable to, say, some crazed maniac with a gun going all first-person-shooter on one of his limbs.
"Jesus, man, what got into you?" he asks, shifting his leg again and still not feeling a thing. This is getting ridiculous, the topical anaesthesia should have worn off by now damnit.
Special Agent Fitzgerald mumbles something, and so he asks for clarification. "Did you just say something about turtles?"
"No, I said that I've never been so scared in my life."
That stops him dead, so he says "Oh" and leaves it at that.
Martin removes his hands from his eyes and tilts his head just enough to look at him. "It was exactly like Dornvald, Danny."
Okay, now he is beyond anger, he has catapulted into vaguely bitchy. He clenches the rough sheets in his fists as he looks at Martin, and lets a snarl loose. "Were you on the street gushing blood, Martin? I don't think that happened this time. Were you flat on your back dying? No, you weren’t."
"Danny," Martin says a bit weakly, like he has still not realised that mentioning Dornvald might have been the wrong thing to do, like all he is doing is recognising the anger and seeking to sooth it. "You could have been killed. It was close enough to warrant comparison."
He wants to reach over and grab Martin by the hair and shake some sense into him, but he's too far away. He settles at tearing the sheet a little in his hands. "No, just fucking no. Stop it."
Martin's shoulders sag, and he reaches over to place a hand on his arm, like a lead weight but wholly welcome. He thinks.
"Next time someone points a gun at you, get out of the way, okay?"
He is still reeling from remembering Martin's blood dried underneath his fingernails to force a laugh, but he smiles weakly and lifts one shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “Hey, man, he was the guy we were trying to find. Why would I think he was going to shoot me?”
Martin’s eyes narrow, and he grips Danny’s arm a little tighter. “We’re going to go sell shoes, or books, or something that isn‘t trying to kill us on a daily basis. We are, and soon.”
His smile is a little stronger now, and he manages a laugh that is almost genuine. “The books will kills us, you’ll see.”
“Yeah, but they’ll kill us in old age.”
He finds he has nothing to say to that.