|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 03:25:00
|Entry tags:||ff-fandom: without a trace, ff-length: 500 to 1k, ff-rating: all, ff-type: slash|
wat/ tomorrow comes today
Title: tomorrow comes today
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG, comatose Martin waaah.
Theme & Community: August 18th 08, Centuries before I come to where you are, 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
He screams in the parking lot of the wilderness reserve, not because they didn't catch the guy--they did, at the very least, do that correctly--but because if he didn't he would tear off his clothing and run naked into the woods, never to be seen again except perhaps by some lost hiker peering up into the trees who would be startled to see some Latin wildman peering down at him.
Jack sort of gives him a look, but says nothing. It was a gamble to bring him on this case, knowing how weird he's been lately, but since he didn't screw it up much he's sure it will count for him rather than against him. Which means more fieldwork, and in turn that diminishes the amount of time spent behind a desk.
Spent behind a desk, thinking.
And Martin has always told him he shouldn't think too much, that he's an intuitive rather than a plotter and planner and general cautious guy, and though at the time he laughed at his friend all evil and condescending, he still remembers the words. He shouldn't think too much, because it will make him crazy.
He was too busy getting Martin's trousers off to say anything coherent then, but right now he says to himself where no one but the trees can hear him, "You were right."
They touch down at Kennedy late at night, sometime in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn't bother to check the actual time, because that would just depress him, and leaves Jack by himself to go flag down a cab and head to Mercy General.
He wonders if he told Boss where he was going, and then decides it doesn't matter if he did or not.
The lights are always blazing at this hospital, always on and beckoning, bring us your tired your injured your downtrodden and slowly dying. He feels like such a fake, entering the building healthy and fit and ready to save the world from the bad men, when inside he feels rotting and unravelling at the edges.
There he goes with the thinking thing again. He shakes his head, jogs up the stairs to level four, ICU, and trudges down the hallway. Some of the doctors recognise him, nod their heads in his direction as they pass, and he manages to return the conciliatory greeting to each and every one.
And then he's at the door to the room, closed as always but still beeping inside. The display in the room's window reads perfect vitals, showing how stable and close to recovery he would be if he wasn't in this coma.
In the end, it wasn't being shot that made him like this. He would recover from that, he always does. And it wasn't even the falling out of the third storey window from the momentum of being shot, he would have had a few more months of recovery, but he'd still be up and around.
Samantha isn't even to blame, though she acts like she is and he treats her like she is, because she was there and she had a gun to her head and she was the one who shouted that got the second guy to turn and pull the trigger right on Special Agent Fitzgerald.
No, it was because he hit his head on the concrete when he landed two months ago, that's why he's laying here with only a smidge of brain activity and no chance of waking up without a miracle. He used to sit all day and watch them check his pupils, blown wide from the trauma and showing how horrific the situation is, but he can't anymore.
He opens the door, walks inside. Sees the machine that breathes for him, the gadgets that monitor every synapse of Martin's brain with red ink on ticker tape. He sits in the single chair, hard plastic and unforgiving to his back, but it isn't as bad as laying in a hospital bed forever and ever, so he'll swallow those complaints down to non-existence, thank you kindly.
He sits there, watches Martin's slack expression with a tube down his throat. There isn't anything he can do, but his hands still shake from the frustration of it all. He wants to shake him, kiss him, wake him up so that they can go home and stay together for ever and ever never to leave again.
There he goes thinking again.
It's the only way he hears Martin's voice anymore, though, so he doesn't stop himself this time.