Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia, @ 2009-01-11 03:44:00 |
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He sits alone in his dark flat, and wonders what it would feel like to organise Martin's funeral.
Not that he would have to, mind you. The man still has family to do that sort of thing for him, a mother and a father and if all else fails at least one sibling. No one would ask what his distraught partner from work would want, the guy who lived and breathed and survived with Martin, because that is what partners do, and because if they didn't they wouldn't be able to keep working for the greater good.
But whoops, he's supposed to be thinking about Martin's funeral, so in this morbid thought path he didn't, did he? Didn't keep breathing and living and surviving, didn't come back to fight for the rights of the victim the next day or the day after that. No, Danny, he's six feet under or is going to be, while he's thinking, so back to the original topic.
What would he do and feel and say if he were to plan Martin's funeral?
Would flowers be required? Would the infamous Fitzgeralds appear, or would they stay away because their son died in a less than dignified manner? Would he have to rent an entire church to put him to rest, or just cremate him and dump his ashes in the Hudson?
He doesn’t even know what Martin is, so why he is thinking of this, he has no idea.
All he knows of are Catholic ceremonies, and Martin does not hit him as a Catholic type. He doesn’t hit him as any type whatsoever, but he knows the man had to be raised something, so probably Protestant or Lutheran. Maybe Buddhist, in an alternate lifetime.
He sits alone in his dark flat, and wonders what it would feel like to organise Martin's funeral.
He comes to the conclusion that it would really fucking hurt.
And he is coming to, from darkness and the sole comfort of his sofa, to bright lights and stiff ground and cold wet something seeping into the front of his jacket. There are pounding and clicking around him, shoes and heels probably, and he just wants to go back to the quiet despair of his flat, just wants to leave now and never come back.
He feels a little translucent, a little not there, and wonders if he could float.
"Danny? Danny, say something!"
Worried, concerned, just a little panicked. He opens his eyes and looks right up into a frantic Martin, and is suddenly solid and in pain on the rain-soaked pavement. Frantic Martin turns into Relieved Martin as his eyes focus, and he tries to form the words to ask what happened to him, why is he still here, why was he in his flat of all places wondering what would happen if Martin died, of all things?
As always, his partner is one step ahead of him. "You got hit pretty hard, man. We weren't sure if you were in a coma or just had a concussion or what."
And the younger man looks up, at someone he can't really see right now for all the lights surrounding him and the rain falling into his eyes. "Told you he'll pull through, this guy has a head like granite."
Some disembodied voice that might be God if he were still in a floating and not caring state says, "We still need to take him in for observation, wait for the bus."
Martin gives assent, and looks back at him with a worried intensity that makes his stomach tie up in knots along with the headache rampaging through his brain "You'll be all right, thank God."
He manages a weak smile, and says his main concern, "Give me some painkillers, and I'll be as good as new."
Martin's answering grin is enough to make him glad he stayed solid, and he finds that the errant thought doesn't make him as upset as it probably should.
So he thinks it again, just for kicks, and waits in the rain with his partner for transport to hospital.