Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia, @ 2009-01-11 03:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | ff-fandom: without a trace, ff-length: 1 to 5k, ff-rating: all, ff-type: slash |
wat/ my bare palms
Title: my bare palms
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Martin Fitzgerald & Danny Taylor
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG
Theme & Community: August 21st 08, These hands made of splinters, 31_days
Words: ~1000
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
Everything tends to pixelate from the outside in when he gets like this, and he has yet to figure out why. It could be that he had some unknown head trauma when he was a child maybe, or perhaps it could just be his way of looking at the world. Regardless, he gets to stand there and watch everyone turn into bits and bytes and multiple cubes that sort of scatter and then snap back together, and he gets to not say a word about it.
Which is just fine by him, actually, because this is amusing as fuck, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
Danny catches him staring off into space, and he tears away from the depixelisation of his computer to look up at his best friend. Courtesy dictates he does so, so he does, and it helps that the man is close enough he can feel body heat sort of just waver right there outside of his senses, beckoning him to lean close but reminding him all the same that if he does give in and get closer, there might be problems immediately down the line.
He isn't paying attention again, so he says, "What was that?" and tilts his head back to get a better look.
Danny makes an exasperated noise, and makes those crazy hand gestures again. "I said, Martin, that the kid was spotted at a computer cafe last night, right? So maybe if we send her something, she might respond, and we can find her that way."
It isn't a bad idea, and he has no trouble saying so. Along with some Devil's Advocate thrown in. "Yeah, but what if she isn't near a computer to check her e-mail? Then it will be a waste of time."
His partner looks down at him with sheer incredulity, and he gets the message loud and clear: What, are you crazy? He stands, hits Danny on the shoulder, and moves past him. "Never mind, forget I said that. Let's go see about writing something she'll respond to."
Danny follows him to Mac's cubicle, and he can feel the wariness and confusion just radiate off of him.
Great.
The girl takes two hours to reply, thrilled at the prospect of meeting someone from Japan right there in New York, especially one peddling genuine anime and Japanese drama goods. Danny laughs as Mac squirms a little at the sheer amount of emoticons in the response, then turns to look at Martin with a smug grin.
He rolls his eyes at his co-worker, and does his best to ignore him. His effort lasts for about one minute, Danny looking at him the entire time, so he makes a rude gesture and leaves the area. Someday he'd like to use a different method to wipe grins off of his partner's face, but for now he'll settle for stomping off like a five year old and sniggering when Danny does the exaggerated impersonation later.
"Look, Martin, I'm doing this with or without you," Danny says to him, wild movement of limbs and digits and inflection of the eyes as he expresses how important this moment is. "So what's it going to be, Fitzie?"
He still feels like he should protest, so he does. "This is a bad idea, Taylor."
And Danny's face falls just a little, enough to show disappointment and oh god is that directed at him? So he sighs, and shifts, and stands with hands spread out before him in a pleading, look I'm not armed gesture. "Fine, I'll help you."
Danny looks bright and shiny and happy, switches expressions like a light switch attached to twinkling lights from the holidays, and he feels like he's been duped somehow. Which he wouldn't mind so much, if Danny wasn't so fucking gleeful and obvious about it.
A bag containing filled water balloons is dumped into his arms, and he staggers a little under the weight.
Says Danny, "Jack is so going to regret insulting my suit."
He sighs again, and follows the vengeful friend.
He's spacing out again, and he knows it somewhere in the base of his skull, so he really doesn't appreciate it when Special Agent Danny Taylor decides to flick him in the back of the head to get his attention. He jumps and flails forward a bit, then leans back into his chair and gives his best wilting glare. The glare he inherited from his mother, damnit, and it better work on the bastard co-worker of his.
It doesn't, if Danny's grin is anything to go by, and he growls a little in frustration.
Danny ignores him, says, "Hey."
They're serving a twenty-five to life sentence of desk duty for dumping an insane amount of water balloons on the boss of their unit and the boss of the entire floor, and he is saying hey like an asshole?
He seethes up at him, then gives up and just says "hey" back with a toss of hands and roll of eyes.
Danny's triumphant grin is something he should really learn to ignore, but he still lets it piss him off, so he turns his chair quickly away and does his best to not jump when Danny flicks him in the back of the head again.
Jack stalks into the bullpen all thundercloud and lightening following to wreak havoc, and Martin notices how both he and Danny instantly try to look busy as opposed to flicking paperclips at each other from across the carpet. The rest of the tired unit follows him, raised eyebrows and sullen looks when they take in the scattered office supplies and the innocent looks.
He feels slightly guilty at Viviane's haggard look, and when she smiles at him like an indulgent mother, his self-worth plummets to about two cents of dry dog food. He glances at Danny, sees the same shell-shocked and bewildered expression that he is sure to have as well, and feels slightly better.
After all, misery loves company.
Everything tends to pixelate when he gets like this, all befuddled and slow and just sitting and waiting for the next scheme that Danny will cook up for them to get into trouble yet again. Because amusing himself with visual effects that may or may not come from some unknown head trauma when he was younger is all fine and dandy, but rabble rousing with his favourite co-worker is a lot better overall.