|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 03:30:00
|Entry tags:||ff-fandom: without a trace, ff-length: 100 to 500, ff-rating: frt, ff-type: slash|
wat/ cold, metallic, greenish glow
Title: cold, metallic, greenish glow
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings:
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, OMFG THE WAFF.
Theme & Community: August 16th 08, Evil is a good condition, 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
Yesterday was okay, yesterday was good. He managed to cook something without burning it, made coffee instead of sludge, paid his bills on time and called his sisters for updates on his nieces. He got to pretend that he was a normal person with a normal life, like a bachelor accountant or a kid’s softball team coach.
Today, not so much. He burns a hole through one of his shirts with the iron, rips a tie in half afterwards because he isn’t attentive enough, and gives himself a bruise the size of British Colombia on his hip when he walks into the edge of a kitchen countertop.
And the coffee is back to being sludge, so not even that works anymore.
Yesterday was okay, but today is pure evil.
There is a preliminary report, a status report, and a final report. Every day spent on a case requires that trifecta, every twenty-four hours looking for a person gets fifty pages or more of paper from each agent.
He hits the print button on his keyboard, and swears he can hear trees screaming far off in Brazil or somewhere similar.
Behind him Danny is joking with Sam and Viviane, telling Sam how to get Jack’s attention with Viviane helping in the advice. They laugh and joke, enjoy their own little world, and then Special Agent Danny Taylor tries to include him.
“Martin, any input?”
He leans back so he’s looking at them upside down, his chair creaking to support his weight, and he shrugs. “Drag him to a cabaret and do the burlesque thing.”
All three stop, stare at him with wide eyes.
Sam says, “Cabaret?”
Viviane says, “Burlesque?”
Danny says nothing, shoves his fist into his mouth and shakes instead.
He decides, forget them, and sits correctly in the chair. Ignores the sounds of Danny trying to choke back laughter, and looks for another report to write.
He wishes he was partnered with Jack, because at least the man is professional when travelling to interview a possible witness. As it is, he’s stuck with Danny, who can’t for the life of him stop smiling like a deranged person whenever he says something.
So he eventually decides to say nothing, and ignore the guy.
“So,” Danny says outside the building they need to enter. “What happened this weekend that turned you into Red Buttons?”
He really wishes he was partnered with Jack.
The bruise has taken on a nasty yellow colouration, edged with green and with purple spots throughout. That evening Danny takes one look, whistles, and goes to get him a bag of ice. He lays on the bed, partially covered with the sheet, and stares at the ceiling.
“So,” Danny says, placing the bag on his hip gingerly, “this is what made you funny earlier? A bruise?”
He snarls a little bit, pulls Danny down next to him. Shifts to keep his legs out of the way and still balance the soothing ice, wraps his arms around his best friend’s neck. Distracts the older man with long languid kisses, and just breathes into him.
Pulls back, says, “sure, why not?”
Danny laughs low in his throat, and slides closer. “Will bruises from me do?”
All he does is grin in answer.