|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 03:15:00
Danny accuses him of being Scheherazade in the wee hours of the morning, when there is a lack of coffee because the break room ran out and they are the only two left in the office while the rest of the unit continues to track down leads. He hears him, ignores him, hears an echo of what was said, and then stares at the man in astonishment.
"Why would I be her?" he asks, hands paused over the manila envelope he was in the process of opening when he was informed of his apparent likeness to a Persian Storyteller Queen. "I don't look like her, I mean."
Danny growls a little, throws up his hands and stalks forward to lean over him. "You tell stories so you don't get killed, or in this case, in trouble."
He knows he is staring stupidly up at the older man, but he can't help it, knows he can't and flounders a bit mentally as he tries to formulate a response.
Intelligent of him, no?
One good thing about reading a lot when he was a kid is that he knows a lot of words that he can use to describe Danny. And though this was not the intended use of this knowledge--he recalls something about wanting to be smarter than everyone else so that he could be in control of his life, way back in his adolescence--it is extremely convenient to use a word like vociferous in the older man's hearing and only get befuddled looks in return.
Jack knows what he's talking about, though, and he gets an approving chuckle from the man before they disperse for their assignments. He walks with Viviane, her wary gaze as always trained at his eyes to see what she can see, and he is sure that something akin to panic is reflecting in them.
Because Danny is walking behind him, not paying any attention to Sam's shouts back in the bullpen, and he doesn't know what to do when he catches up with him.
So he stiffens when long fingers wrap around a bicep, and still lets himself be pulled back because there is less fuss that way. Danny leans close, head angled down so that he can breath hot against his mouth, a hairbreadth away. Viviane continues to walk, ignoring them, and enters the lift without caring if her assigned partner is with her.
"I changed my mind, you aren't Scheherazade," Danny says, eyes searching his own to take in the panic and abyss and most probably lust swirling around his pupils. It's like he can feel his eyes darken as the older man licks his lips, and he dimly wonders if this is a predecessor to falling down into hell.
He swallows, and nods, and does his best to resist the urge to shake. He isn't finding his extreme ability to use difficult words helpful now, because his tongue is too big to fit inside his mouth and he has to breathe with lips parted just to regulate the air filling his lungs. He tries to shift backwards, and Danny follows, pressing him against the wall opposite the lift doors, and completely ignoring the fact that they are at work.
"But," Danny continues, licking his lips again just because, "I'll listen anyway."
And then he's gone, back to the bullpen and laughing at Sam's grumbles, leaving Martin leaning against cool glass and wondering if his legs will support him for the rest of the shift.
The look Viviane gives him when he finally catches up with her allows no excuses or explanations, and he is for once happy that she walked in on them during an argument months ago; where Danny was telling Martin off for tying the scarves too tight the night previous. She promised to keep quiet about it, raised hand and stern look while telling them to be more careful in the future, and she keeps that promise by ignoring the touches and the looks that they now manage to exchange when only she is around.
He smiles weakly, follows her down into the garage to check out a vehicle, and tries to not think about Danny being overbearing or Danny being close and pressing and intrusive like he always is. Gets into the passenger side of the car because in all fairness Viviane is the better driver, and swallows down the dread at her bemused glance for later.
Danny is reading Arabian Nights when he gets back to his flat, sprawled out bare under a flimsy sheet on the king-sized bed and idly flipping through pages. Martin is unimpressed, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes, not really entering the bedroom but close enough to observe every movement. He takes in the dictionary on the nightstand, knows he can’t use that word again without probably getting dragged into the men’s bathroom for a round of punishment, and he sighs because he really doesn’t know what to do.
Danny stops, peers over the book, and rolls his eyes at the downtrodden look. “You coming in, or are you going to sleep out there tonight?”
He eyes the semi-arousal that isn’t hidden by a three hundred thread count, and feels a shudder flow up and down his spine. Manages to get his clothing off in record time, and gets his books out of the general area of contact before they get ruined.
Later, he asks in a slow way, “How did you get in here?”
And later, the answer is, “You know how.”
He thinks back to having to ask for a key from the doorman, because his keys were missing and he was pretty sure he lost them inside his flat, and he sighs and sinks further into the mattress, yes being pressed down by the body of his best friend and right now best friend with additional benefits, and says simply, “Thief.”
Danny laughs, presses closer, and does not deny it.
He tells Danny that he is full of beans the next day in the office, and he can’t say anything else for the rest of the day without his best friend laughing like a maniac.
He swears he sees Viviane smiling into her report when he walks past.