|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 04:15:00
The vodka burns on the way down his throat so he sputters a little after the final swallow, slams down the glass on the counter and shoves it away. This won't work at all, no need to suffer through until he really does something stupid like quaff an entire bottle of tequila on a cold night like this.
He glances up at the clock on the wall, sees a two and a zero and a four, then grins a little. The alcohol is making him feel a little giddy as it hits his bloodstream, breath coming out in little puffs as he processes the impurities. So he digs around in his coat pocket, dives down deep and feels himself lean into the motion like the fold of cloth designed to hold objects actually descends down into Narnia, instead of closing off at three inches and a quarter of space.
Fingers encircle his government issued phone, and he pulls it out with a triumphant flourish. By the time all of this is over he will be stone cold sober and probably a little upset at life in general, but for right now he can pretend.
The cover flips up at pressure from his thumb, and he dials a number deeply ingrained to his memory before raising it to his ear. Waits four beats, hears the line pick up, and his grin fades a little as the sleepy voice murmurs a greeting.
"Danny, sorry to wake you man, but I need you to come get me."
He took note a while ago that his reaction to his co-worker was abnormal and should be fixed as soon as possible, but it never really came to pass that he was forced to actually take that final step and stop it one way or another. Because feeling like you're being sprayed by bullets right in the gut as soon as the man walks into the room isn't healthy, no matter what the romantics say, but the twisting feeling of his intestines shattering like spun glass was addictive, after a while.
Seeing Danny's disgruntled expression as he entered the bar didn't bring those feelings this time, but something worse instead. Something akin to overwhelming nausea, tinged with affection that he really cannot afford to acknowledge right now--or ever, really.
And so his sometimes-partner walks up to him, bed head and all, and he thinks to himself that he probably pulled him out of Elena's bed and isn't that just so awesomely vindictive of him that he will finish things like this? Like a bang in the night, instead of a whimper like so often professed?
Danny scratches his head, glances around the room warily, sniffs at the temptation in the air, then focuses on Martin completely. He'd probably derive pleasure from the fact that Special Agent Taylor can dismiss his biggest vice and use him as a focal point instead, but right now he just feels like he's about to puke so he doesn't dare.
"You don't look drunk, Martin," Danny says, not really sounding awake but pretending to be alert anyway.
"I'm not," he replies simply.
Confusion flits across Danny's face as he shoves himself off of the barstool, straightens and realises that he is indeed only slightly intoxicated instead of completely smashed, and he nods to himself before turning and stepping forward and leaning in just enough to press lips against lips and leave it at that.
But no, intoxication--as he will blame it on later, or in fact, blames it on now--dictates one sweep of the tongue into a shocked open mouth, and he tastes sleep and something else that he distinctly thinks might be Elena, and that is enough to make him stop and step backwards.
Danny stares at him sharply, fully awake now and looking like he's never seen Martin completely and totally before, which he probably hasn't. They stand there for one beat two beat three beat four, and he nods and sidesteps his sometimes-partner so that he's closer to the door than before.
"Thanks, Danny, and see you around."
No motion to follow him as he walks to the door and exits to the cold air, nothing said or done as he walks past the front window with his chin held parallel to the sidewalk towards his rented car stuffed with suitcases and personal effects that he won't trust with the movers.
As he pulls his keys from his coat pocket and unlocks the driver side door, he thinks to himself that maybe this wasn't the best way to end things, especially since it won't be for another five hours until Danny discovers that he won't be around anymore, transferred to some different city in a different state where he can start afresh and try to not get by on his father's influence yet again.
And then again, he continues, maybe it was the best way. Whatever it really is, he nods for a third and final time, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls into the street. Takes a left, and follows the sign towards the city limits.
Grins to himself as the alcohol finally leaves his system enough to appreciate what he's done, and flips on the radio for company.
stripped of his wings
Prior to today, he didn't think that it was possible for the ground to drop away under his feet and leave him plummeting down into some sort of sick twisted abyss. But it changed, not for the better, at almost three in the morning, and continued on until he got into work and found that underneath that first black hole was an even bigger, blacker hole, and it was twice as hard to recover from.
Jack confirms with a jerk of his head, not wanting to show how pissed off he is at the sudden shrinkage of his team, and focuses on the paper in his hand. "Transferred to the narcotics division in Las Vegas."
Everyone is quiet, him doubly so, and then Viviane opens the manila folder holding the specifics for the new photo on the whiteboard, and the conversation about Martin is over, and the work has begun.
It won't be that easy for him, not while darkness tinges his vision and he feels most decidedly like his world has just cracked in two.
He feels a little like a prostitute while he flirts and cajoles Martin's new number from the tec on duty for the week, a little like he's selling himself with promises for more if only he could get a taste of this new smack that comes in the rather large form of the Deputy Director's son instead of dime baggies and syringes.
But he succeeds--he isn't to tell anyone about this, you hear me, anyone--and is victorious with a slip of paper and bold black ink numbers staining through tree pulp, so he decides it was worth it, and puts the feeling of being a bit cheap at the back of his head to be forgotten about later.
How a tiny slip of paper could feel like a lead weight he has no idea, but it does and it is, and he is constantly checking his posture to make sure he isn't leaning over weird to accommodate the precious object in his suit pocket. He does his job without really paying attention, getting information out of the suspect without even knowing what he is doing, and after they leave the room with the man being hauled out in handcuffs, Sam touches his shoulder lightly and tilts her head in question.
"How much of that was intentional, Danny?"
He shifts position so that he's a little bit away from her, and gives the best smile he can right now. "Not much."
Her hair glints a little in the fluorescent light as she straightens her posture to look up at him, and he can sort of see why Martin wasted his time with her even if she wasn't the right sex for his preferences. If he himself was looking for someone to affirm he could fake picture perfect life for his father, he'd force himself to love her too.
Then she says, "As soon as you stop caring about the cases is when you need to pack up and do something else."
And his charitable thoughts vanish, leaving a bitter edge to his voice. "Like narcotics on the other side of the country?"
She looks slightly upset by his response, and he fights to swallow the anger clawing its way up his throat.
Martin left on a Wednesday, and the case finished up late on Friday. He tossed a thank you to the gods that it was indeed over so that he could get on with life as he pulled out his phone and the paper with the number on it, then stopped and stared at the piece of plastic mixed with technology stupidly.
What if he doesn’t pick up?
What if he does?
He felt angry towards the entire situation, of Martin giving that farewell like the bastard he is and then just disappearing, and so he got the number without really thinking about it. Now that he has the time to call him, to speak to him, to scream a little a few questions like what the hell and why can’t you have a spine, he doesn’t know what to do exactly.
He examines at the paper in his hand, and crushes it with his fist.
countless drums of thunder
Lights pulse through the fog machine while cold mist machines work from the ceiling through strategically placed fans to disperse the toxins before they make everyone asphyxiate and die. Music clicks and thumps from speakers sunk into the floor and walls, make the dancers thrum with the beat, and it is wasted on the whole lot of them because they are too strung out and drunk to notice.
He hates it here, hates everything about this place and this office and these co-workers. He hates it that yet again he is the new guy, and that in this area being the new guy means he gets to be the one who dresses up like a prostitute and waits at the bar of a club and makes eyes at the target just to see if they can pin a solicitation charge on him. Because, you know, questioning. It is needed here.
So he stands and he flirts with random men and he listens to the taunts made by those bastards on the team in his earphone, and he wonders why he ever thought that transferring was a good idea. The smell of alcohol here is strong, and it makes him think of his last night in New York, and it wasn’t possible then but it is now for him to sink into an even blacker mood than before.
Agent Roman walks up to him and leans in, drapes an arm around his waist and breathes easy next to his ear. Says, “You’re wanted back at the office.” Leans away and winks, then walks off towards their suspect with all intents and purposes of distracting the man with his painted-on trousers and never-once buttoned silk shirt.
He sighs in relief, and looks around for the quickest way out of this hellhole.
Jack is on a roll, and for once he appreciates it rather than resents it. Not because what the man is doing is particularly special, but because if Boss is speaking, then he won’t have to, and he doesn’t trust himself to hold back on anyone’s account.
Besides, jeering at an entire room of burly agents who look like they’ve fought three wars and are on their fourth isn’t the best of actions, even if it would make him feel a whole lot better to smile malevolently and say ‘nyah, you can’t have him you stupid bastards‘ over and over and over again.
The leader of the team flounders a bit, shuffles through the stack of papers Jack had handed him, and clears his throat, still looking bewildered and just a little put out. “So you’re saying he isn’t officially transferred yet?”
Jack nods, and he does a little happy dance inside his mind. “Because he was basically AWOL for six months, I’m afraid you won’t get this corrected any time soon. He’s going on suspension as soon as we take him back to New York.”
Someone near the back of the room says a soft “Damn“ and he turns to glare in their direction. No, not damn, it is yes thank you god he’s coming back so that this can be fixed, whatever it is. Not damn, never damn. Assholes.
The elevator dings open sounding a bit dim and in turn mournful, and the head of the office says “Fitzgerald, you messed up your paperwork” before he even has a chance to turn around and look at him.
Though he isn’t sorry, because a Martin in smudged yet still thick black eye-liner, hair stuck up every which way from Sunday with what is probably a lack of gel instead of an overabundance, and..
“A mesh shirt, Martin? What are they doing to you here?” he chokes out, thinking that maybe he should take off his jacket and cover the man, because no one besides approved persons--or, him, Danny Taylor--should see this.
Martin swallows a bit, looks surprised and a little annoyed at the same time, darts his gaze between his fake boss and Jack and him, then sighs and lets his shoulders sag. “Today isn’t my day, is it?”
They’re sitting side by side on a hard plastic bench held up by thin metal rods holding cups of the sludge commonly known as Bureau coffee in their hands, and he can’t help but feel that he’s been here before.
Danny looks entirely too smug for this, for what happened last time they were in each other’s presence, but he’s tired, so he doesn’t mention it. Instead he just sips and fights a wince, swallows and repeats.
“Seriously Martin, what are you wearing?”
He pauses, then takes another sip, a small one this time. “Undercover operation, the guy likes Caucasian males with blue eyes for his hookers, so I got picked.”
Danny has the audacity to laugh at the word ‘hooker‘, and he fights to keep his own face from shattering into a thousand pieces with a smile of his own. Because yes it is absurd, but he isn’t comfortable around this man anymore, so they shouldn’t be sharing a laugh over his misfortune.
“Well, it got you out of those disgusting suits, so I guess I’ll forgive them.”
He hums in agreement while ignoring the last part of Danny‘s statement, and drains the liquid caffeine from the Styrofoam cup. Then says, “So, why did Jack decide to come after me now? He had to have had the information pretty soon after I left, knowing Van Doren.”
“The new guy got confused and shot the victim instead of the suspect last week,” was the simple reply, tinged with amusement and exasperation at the same time. So he was fond of his replacement. Perfect.
He laughs at the idea, swallowing down his bitterness, then stops, because now Danny is leaning against his shoulder, and this isn’t cool, not with everything the way it is.
He chokes a little, and crunches the empty cup with his fingers. Says the only thing that comes to mind, “I sold my apartment, so I don’t know where Jack is going to put me.”
Sometimes partner Special Agent Taylor shifts, leans in closer, and laughs a little. “I have a guest room, you‘re staying with me.”
He looks down at Danny and feels himself get confused and frown-y. This isn’t good, but maybe it’s-- no, not going there. Better stop this before he gets even more upset. “Last time I saw you, I shoved my tongue down your throat.”
“And then you ran off before I could do the same to you, so I don‘t want to hear it.”
The confusion stays, but the frown leaves. And to preserve his sanity he just decides to hell with it, roll with the punches as they come, and he leans back and slightly into Danny, so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip across one long bench of hard generic plastic.
Okay, this is nice, this is acceptable. Maybe he jumped the gun six months ago. Perhaps this will work out in the end.
Jack enters the hallway and stops. Gives them a look that says he isn’t surprised, but that in no way means he approves, then walks past them towards the lift.
“Come on, we have a flight to catch.”
On the way to the gate for their flight, navigating past slot machines and craps tables right in the middle of the fucking airport, he fishes out the crumpled bit of paper from his pocket and looks down at it. He can still see a bit of the last number in the sequence, but it isn’t important, so he drops it into the rubbish bin as they pass it.
Martin looks over at him with a cocked eyebrow and questioning glaze in his eyes, and he just shakes his head and smiles in response.