|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 03:47:00
|Entry tags:||ff-fandom: without a trace, ff-length: 1 to 5k, ff-rating: frt, ff-type: slash|
wat/ you never got far
Title: you never got far
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor & Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, swearing and references to abuse.
Theme & Community: August 9th 08, White it out, 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
The case is this: A boy runs away from a loving home one day with no warning whatsoever, all because his Pastor told him that he was the devil-incarnate. There are no mental illnesses to attribute this religious diagnosis, no acting out or introverted glaring from the abandoned corner of the room where he can cackle at the futile efforts of his classmates. There is no reason for the man to tell him this, except that maybe it is because he has two mothers, instead of regular set consisting of a mommy and a daddy.
The case is this: A boy is found dead in a gutter, obvious signs of sexual abuse present in his undressed state and bruised mouth. He ran away from a loving home one day with no warning whatsoever, all because his church leader told him he was evil.
The case is this: Once again, Martin wants to take his gun and kill someone.
His report is disjointed at best, but Jack says nothing. No reprimands, no comments, no mere suggestion done in an oh-so-subtle, I-have-a-degree-in-psychology-so-I-can-m
anipulate-you sort of way. He just nods and takes it in hand and shoves it under the pile on his desk, to be lost eventually by the flurry of paperwork.
He wonders if maybe his distress is showing on his face, that this is the cause of Jack's cautious treatment of him, so he heads to the bathroom. Looks at himself in the mirror, and for a moment sees the now expired child looking straight at him.
Shakes his head, closes his eyes, opens them again, and finally it is himself reflected. This time sees dead eyes fixed in his head, a dark abyss that one could probably see forever in if they took the time to look.
Nervous shaking has taken over his body at odd intervals, like when he's making toast in the evening after his shift, or when he tries to grab the remote so he can turn on the television and just zone into the bright lights shiny objects movement of nothing. It disturbs him on a purely annoyed level, how can he get through life--how can he draw and possibly shoot a gun--if he can't control his nerves? He can't, that's how.
So he takes a calming breath and steadies himself. This is the couch, I am sitting on the couch. This is the floor, my feet are flat against it. This is my apartment, I am in my apartment.
The room spins a little when he opens his eyes, and he hears thudding off in the entry-way. A voice off in the distance, shouting to open the door it's the FBI and damnit I have a warrant.
If this is a part of the anxiety, he is probably going to kill himself, because this is not fucking funny. He stands and pitches forward, gets to the door and leans against it. Feels the reverberations at each thud, each pound, so he opens it to a cat-that-caught-the-canary grinning Danny.
He wants to wipe that grin off of his face.
Passing out at the man's feet probably did it.
He wakes up with his head laying on something warm and just a bit hard, and blinks his eyes open to the sound of the television and the sofa and why is he practically in Danny's lap?
Shoots into a sitting position and regrets it instantly, because ow ow fucking ow. His head feels like something small and amoeba like is using a drill on his nerve synapses, so pain radiates from the back of his head all the way to the front, and down his spinal cord like a dead-man's drop.
Danny says something from behind him, and he stiffly turns his neck so he can look at him and says, "What was that?"
"I said," Danny enunciates with exaggeration and just a little too much humour, "Are you finished fainting like a girl now?"
He is distracted by the television, so he takes a moment to not answer before finally deciding to ignore him. Tasers, warp-speed, buxom green-skinned females with purple hair. What is Danny doing watching the Sci-Fi channel?
Danny pokes him in the back between his shoulder blades, and he does his best to look angry as he bats the offending hand away. "Don't let Sam hear you say that, she'll shoot you in the head and dump your body into the river."
Turns back to the television, "And why the hell are you watching this?"
"Spock is my childhood hero, man. What's not to love?"
The headache is dissipating a little, so he hazards a mild shake of his head to show disbelief. "Right. Spock."
The alien lady currently making-out with Captain Kirk sort of makes him not believe it.
Routine becomes the following: Get home finally after a long shift where an adult person or a child person becomes a missing person then eventually a found person, and pass out on the couch. Wake up to pounding and threats of jail time at his door. Open it to a Danny carrying sustenance of some sort, then back up to let him in.
Eat the food provided, hide the shakes that are slowly going away just because he has a distraction in the form of one Danny Taylor, and tease his friend mercilessly about his science fiction obsession.
"You're a geek, Danny," he tells him, licking a thumb to get the last bit of tomato sauce from the now-finished pizza, and ignores the slightly glazed look that settles in the older man's eyes when he does so. "Just face it."
Danny shakes his head a little, then comes back completely indignant in a way that only he can manage to pull off and not sound like a total priss. "I enjoy a good story, which doesn't make me a geek. Just makes me intelligent, Mister Martin Fitzgerald, Prince Jock of Washington D.C."
He laughs, leans back and gestures at the television set. "Python 2 is not a good story, it's crap. Explain that, Mister Danny Taylor, Geek of the FBI."
Danny gets quiet, then says, "Better watch crap than talk about it."
He stops, looks at him, and feels something leaden sink to the bottom of his stomach. "Talk about what?"
Straight stare that he remembers from that quasi-intervention that was because of his painkiller addiction, from his gung-ho days when he was first with the team, from immediately after the Adisa hit. This isn't funny, he thinks, this isn't going to end well and it isn't fucking funny, universe.
"Your panic attacks," Danny says. "You look hysterical most of the time, which is why Jack keeps you out of the field as much as he can now. You're breaking, Martin, and watching crap on the television is keeping you together."
This is the sofa he is sitting on, the floor his feet are resting on, the apartment he is currently contained in. This is the air he is breathing, not quantum at all and nothing doing on the oppression problem, and this is Danny sitting next to him making him feel like he should either punch him or kiss him, whichever works best.
His hands are still, however, so this now-never-more routine has been beneficial, at least.
"I'm sorry I look like such a wreck, Danny," he says. "I'll fix it in the morning, feel free to get back to your life."
Danny looks like he's been slapped, then like he's been insulted, so he stands up and leaves the apartment with a quiet click of the door closing behind him.
He takes a deep breath, and watches the giant snake almost kill the guy from Twin Peaks again.
Another case is yet again this: A child, this time a girl, is taken from outside her house one sunny afternoon where she is playing with her large inflated ball just purchased at the store the day before, and her parents have no idea where she could be. She was just out there, having the time of her life, and then the father notices that there isn't any more laughter, and they both rush out calling for her and see nothing but a flat ball with a tire tread ground into the plastic and no child in sight.
And the case is this: A female child is taken from outside her house one sunny afternoon when she is innocent, and when they find her she is broken. Not on the outside, but the inside, where she's staring blankly at a wall and talking to herself about dolls and candy and pretty dresses that she really doesn't want to wear because no no please no she doesn't like them.
The case is this: Martin hits the kidnapper in the mouth hard enough to break free a handful of teeth, and leaves him whimpering on the floor with blood pooling beneath his head, mixed with spit and tears and bits of shattered enamel.
His report is again disjointed, and this time Jack looks up at him from behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose like he's a fucking schoolmarm or something. Says, "I thought you were getting better."
He isn't surprised at this reaction, so he shrugs and tries to brush it off. "I am."
Jack narrows his eyes a little, like he knows he is being lied to but isn't sure if he should be bothered to pursue the subject, and drops the report onto his desk. "Shift is over, get home."
He takes the dismissal in stride, and heads towards the lift without once looking around to see if Danny is watching.
When the shakes started, it was spring. When they abated, it was fall. Now they're back, and it's winter.
He stands in the snow on the roof of the building, no jacket and shirt-sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hand is probably broken, or at least fractured, because one thing you learn in hand-to-hand combat training is to not hit anyone in the mouth because that can cause more trouble for you than it would for your opponent.
It helped him feel better, however, so pink slip be damned, he'd do it again given the opportunity.
But still, standing on the roof of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's New York City offices while it is slick and wet and just a little frozen, peering over the edge to examine ants that might be people in the future or have been in the past darting around on the ground far below, this isn't the smartest thing he's done all year. Sort of like transferring here from Seattle. Sort of like ordering Danny out of his apartment.
The door that leads back down into the bowels of the building slams open and quick footsteps dulled by a thick layer of snow brings him back to the present. So, what is he doing here? Standing next to a thirty-storey plummet to the asphalt below, with wind gusting and snow falling. Yeah, he needs to get it together.
He thinks about pitching forward instead, and smiles. "Danny, I'm fine."
The man stops right behind him, he can feel the heat sort of creep outwards and clutch at the back of his neck a little. It's oddly comforting in a way, but remains dispiriting overall.
"If you even think about going over, Martin, I'm going to tell Jack."
That draws a laugh out of him, sharp and tinged with hysteria, and he turns to face a worried friend and co-worker smiling. "You do and it will be too late, man."
Danny reaches out and grabs his bicep, pulls him away from the edge and into him, and he goes willingly. Sinks into the warmth offered, the tight grip around his back that lets him know that there is no way he'll be able to do something stupid like stand on the frozen roof of the building again.
"Anaconda 2 is on tonight, want to watch it?"
He smiles into Danny's neck, and presses closer, wraps his arms around to return the grip for dear life.