Verb (transitive): (of a pitcher) to throw a pitch that the catcher is not expecting.
Some days are better than others.
As he began his self-appointed task of erasing the timeline, Martin mused that there were some mornings when he hated coming in to work, mornings so bleak he wondered if he could face another one like it. He always did, though, no matter how hard the case had been—no matter what it took from him personally. The majority of their assignments didn't end well and sometimes it was only by meticulously concealing his despair that Martin could enter in to the numbing ritual of dismantling a case.
Besides, he was all too aware that weakness didn't go over very well in this department—sharp eyes were ready to catch him out if he lowered his guard. Those eyes weren't intentionally unkind, but as long as Martin was the new kid on the block—and bearing the pedigree he kept trying to live down—they'd be watching him. Despite his best efforts, he was pretty sure Jack knew that he struggled with some of the harsher realities of their job; he'd stopped counting how many times he'd been told to go home as Jack himself headed for the elevator, long after everyone else had gone. Martin always smiled and assured him that he was right behind him—yet hours later, he'd still be there, sitting in the only pool of light in an otherwise darkened office, trying to make sense of the senseless. But no matter how late he'd end up leaving, he knew he'd show up every morning—because sometimes the nights were even harder to face.
Of course, there had been one night when he couldn't face it at all.
Today—well, today was a success story. Not his, but one for the team, definitely. A father and daughter had been reunited, exposing one tragedy while averting another. The preliminary reports had been customarily brief, but Martin knew that Danny had been the pivotal element in creating that happy ending they hoped for every time.
As he set the eraser aside and pulled down Clare's picture, Martin paused. He had trouble reading Danny Taylor at the best of times, although he figured he was getting better every day. After last night, though, Taylor was probably going to be unbearably smug—and Martin could feel himself rising to the bait already. He tried to tell himself that he gave as good as he got, but for some reason his mercurial co-worker got under his skin like no one else ever had—and Martin hated it.
Or so he told himself.
From behind him, he heard a faint good morning called out and returned. He recognized the second voice and turned, arranging his expression into a bland smile.
"Hey, mornin'," he said lightly, steeling himself to handle whatever Danny was about to dish out.
"Hey," came the uncharacteristically subdued response.
Never one to withhold praise when it was due, Martin's smile widened as he stepped up to Danny's desk. "Heard about last night. Good job."
The dark head turned toward him, offering him a faint echo of his own grin. "All in a day's work."
As their eyes met, Martin's world tilted precariously. Instead of the self-satisfied smirk he'd been expecting, he found himself face to face with pain—unexpected and almost disguised—but definitely there. His smile froze as he took in the unfamiliar vulnerability in the dark eyes, watching as it was quickly masked with Danny's normal veneer of unconcern.
"Right," he replied, wishing he didn't sound so stilted. "You want coffee? I'm gonna grab one."
The offer was sincere but he flinched inside as he asked, afraid that Danny would reject it as a way of reestablishing his usual demeanor of breezy superiority.
But the rejection never came. Instead, with a smile of surprising sweetness, Danny nodded. "Yeah."
"'Kay," Martin said softly, turning away to stride toward the elevator like a man on a mission from God.
Why were his eyes red?
Don't be an idiot, Martin told himself. Doesn't matter a damn.
Giving himself a mental shake as he veered around the table that had so recently held the stuff of Clare's nightmares, he tried to puzzle out the most logical reason. Knowing Danny, he'd probably celebrated late into the night and then worked off the adrenaline rush with someone in a more private setting—and certainly none of that was any of his damn business. And yet...there was none of Danny's normal braggadocio this morning, not even that ever-present, half-mocking grin that he lost about as often as he wore a white shirt—in other words, hardly ever.
Instead, there had been that shadow of hurt in his face, and for a brief instant Martin wondered if he'd gotten it all wrong and the case had turned out badly. No, he thought, that wasn't true—laying on his desk was a copy of last night's hospital admittance record for the girl, ready to be filed with the rest of the paperwork. He'd gotten it right—so what the hell was wrong with Taylor?
Waiting for the elevator to take him down to the lobby espresso cart, he nodded absently at Sam as she passed him by. He didn't notice her hit the brakes and turn back to him until she touched him on the shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked with a smile. He smiled back, noting with an inward sigh that once again, he wished it were her brown eyes that he thought about when he was away from the office on his rare days off. He knew there'd been speculation that he was interested in her, but he was pretty sure he'd put an end to that—not that she'd ever given him any encouragement. The one time he'd asked her out for a drink, all he'd really wanted to do was decompress from that case with the flight attendant—another one that had ended in tragedy. It hadn't worked out and he'd never asked her—or anyone—again.
"Yeah, sure, I'm fine." Sam nodded and started to move away, but he stopped her with hand on her arm. She turned back with a questioning look and he cleared his throat, not sure how to ask but letting his curiosity get the better of him. "Last night—did anything—weird—happen?"
"Weird?" she echoed, her head tilted to one side. Martin felt a flush rise up his cheeks and he laughed a little, glancing down at the appropriately subdued shine of his shoes.
"Uh, yeah, you know—when Jack and Danny found Clare." He looked up, hoping his face wasn't revealing anything and not very sure what it was he was trying to hide.
Sam shook her head. "No, I haven't read the full report yet, just the prelim. Why?"
The elevator door opened and they found themselves awash in a sea of agents coming in to start their day. Once they were past, Martin jumped in the car and pressed the down button.
"No reason," he said with a shrug, leaving Sam watching him with an odd expression as the doors closed.
"You want coffee? I'm gonna grab one—"
As the elevator descended, he still couldn't believe he'd offered. Granted, when they were on the road, one or the other picked up coffee for the team. But when they were at the office, it was usually just the nasty stuff they brewed in the break room and everyone was on their own.
But Danny's eyes—eyes so often overshadowed by the constant patter that tumbled out of his mouth—were strangely warm this morning, warm and shiny as if still glistening from tears that hadn't been withheld. And the ache in those eyes had Martin doing stupid things, like offering to hike down twelve flights to buy overpriced coffee.
Just trying to be a nice guy, he argued with himself. Just trying to show appreciation for a job well done.
The elevator doors opened and Martin walked toward the cart automatically, his mind still chewing over his reaction to Danny this morning—and the phenomenal stupidity of letting it become any bigger in his head.
After all, he still wasn't sure Danny actually liked him—not that it mattered.
"Mornin', Martin." Althea looked up with a smile, her rasta braids bouncing as she reached for a cup. "You want your usual, hon?"
Martin nodded as he reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. "Yeah, thanks. Oh, and, uh, Danny wants his—whatever it is he drinks."
Althea beamed at him and he blushed, although he knew he didn't have any reason to. "Dat's nice, hon. You buying coffee for your friend. Hang on, be just a sec or two. You want some muffins or somet'ing?"
"No—uh, yeah, sure. Whatever you have, thanks."
For your friend. So maybe it wasn't necessarily true—but the thought lightened his step just the same.
On the ride back up to the office, coffee in both hands and a plastic-wrapped muffin cradled within each bent elbow, his conscience reminded him that Danny had acted like a friend to him—a friend who'd kicked him in the ass, but a friend nonetheless. Maybe making him hit a bucket full of baseballs until his arms shook so badly he couldn't raise the bat anymore was an odd way of showing affection, but it had worked—to some extent. To the extent that it hadn't wasn't anyone's business but his own.
"Here you go."
Danny looked up from his desk and then rose to take one of the cups from him.
"Hey, man, thanks."
"Uh, not that one—this one."
"Ah. Thanks." Danny switched cups and their eyes met, just as they had when they'd spoken earlier. Danny's eyes were still pinched and sore, even though his smile was easy as they fumbled with the cups.
God, Martin thought with a hint of panic—it's still there. I didn't imagine it. Damn it—it's still there.
"Oh, and I got you this, too." He held out the apple streusel muffin, his hand awkward and clumsy, once again afraid his offering would be rejected—or worse, mocked.
"You did?" Danny's voice rose on an uncharacteristic note, embarrassing Martin further. Danny grabbed for it and immediately began peeling away the thin plastic.
"Yeah—they're old, so they were two for one today."
"Cheap bastard," Danny said sincerely as he bit into the muffin, sending a cascade of crumbs onto the floor. A happy sigh escaped from him as he closed his eyes in elaborate appreciation and Martin grinned, beginning to feel the ground solidly beneath his feet again at the mild insult.
A picture near Danny's monitor caught his eye as he started to walk away. Tucked in among the carefully arranged collection of law enforcement patches was a snapshot he'd never seen before. It was an old photo of a young family—a stern-looking father, a sweet-faced mother and a kid, maybe nine or ten, holding a baseball mitt.
"Hey," he said, nudging Danny out of his sugar-induced reverie. "Nice picture. That your family?"
The remains of the muffin were carefully set aside. "Yeah."
Something in the flatness of Danny's tone caught at Martin; where he would've normally made some noncommittal and polite remark, he paused now, assessing his next words. The sudden appearance of a family portrait, the sadness that hung around Danny's shoulders like a light fog, the conclusion of the case—there was a connection to be made here, Martin was sure.
But as he gathered in Danny's coolly anticipatory expression, he switched gears. Nodding again toward the picture, he leaned a hip against the edge of the desk.
"Looks like a pitcher's mitt."
He could almost feel the strain fade from Danny's neck and shoulders. "Yeah. Sandy Koufax was my dad's favorite player."
"Even after the Dodgers moved?"
Danny shrugged, reaching for his coffee. "What can you say? You can take the kid outta Brooklyn—"
Martin laughed softly. "Right. Well, hell, now that we know I can hit—"
Danny slanted his eyes upward. "You wanna know if I can pitch?"
The quietly spoken words raced through Martin like a shot of pure adrenaline and he jumped a little, his wide-eyed gaze swinging to Danny's face involuntarily. Once again, he felt the universe slip—there was something almost flirtatious in the way Danny was looking at him over the lip of the plastic cup, the edge paused millimeters from his mouth as he waited for Martin's response.
This was the Danny Taylor that Martin didn't know or understand, the one that ragged him unmercifully one minute and then turned on the charm the next. But as he waited for the change in expression that would signal that Danny was yet again giving him a bad time, he started to sweat. The gleam in Danny's eye held none of the good-natured malice that usually preceded the "gotcha" moment—instead, there was only a gentle challenge in the brown eyes that still looked more sad than anything else.
With an uneven laugh, Martin stood up and settled his coat around his suddenly tight shirt collar before grabbing his own neglected coffee.
"No, I'm sure you can pitch. Spitballs, probably."
"No way, man," Danny said firmly. "Never used an illegal substance in my life. Well," he added with a confiding wink, "not since I was a kid, anyway."
The slight emphasis on the word illegal had Martin floundering for a response. Whatever personal sorrow Danny had carried in to work with him today had been supplanted by some devil that was born to do nothing but make Martin's life miserable.
"That's, uh, good to know," he said lamely. He watched with fascinated mortification as Danny grinned up at him, an intimate smile that Martin didn't remember seeing before. He could see that Danny was winding up for another verbal pitch when he saw Jack and Vivian come out of Jack's office, their expressions grim.
"Uh, oh," he said quietly. "Looks like we're on again."
Instantly, Danny sobered and straightened in his chair. Martin was turning toward his own desk, intent on grabbing his notebook, when he felt warm fingers encircle his wrist. Looking down, he saw that the odd playfulness was gone from Danny's eyes, replaced by something warmer—and much more dangerous.
"Thanks for the coffee—Martin."
"No problem," he murmured, inexplicably relieved when his hand was released. There was rarely any reason for them to touch, and the suddenly too-swift beating of his heart told him that was probably a good thing.
After the office had emptied for the day, Martin sat alone at his desk. Staring straight ahead, his fingers loosely linked across his abdomen, he wondered for the thousandth time if he was in the right place. There was no one to ask for counsel; his father would gladly offer it, but Martin had no illusions about what the response would be from that quarter—especially if he were honest about the real reason for his disquiet.
Sighing, he leaned far back in his chair and began a slow, side-to-side sway as he let his gaze float to the ceiling. If there were no answers to be discovered tonight, he may as well go home. But he still made no move to rise, instead using his legs to increase the arc of the chair until he was practically turning a circle. His unfocussed eyes drifted downward just as he faced Danny's work station and with a sudden shift of his weight, he stopped all movement.
The picture was still there, held with a single thumbtack that couldn't prevent a slight curl from forming around its edges. Feeling foolish for feeling guilty, Martin got up and then immediately reseated himself in Danny's chair, turning on the small desk lamp as he sat down. As he gazed at the bright-eyed kid that had grown up to be a smug, hotheaded, deeply compassionate man, Martin drew a deep breath and felt an unaccustomed excitement settle into the pit of his belly.
If nothing else, Martin had come to one inevitable conclusion—the only way he was ever going to figure out what made Danny Taylor tick was to stick around. And the strange thing was that he did trust Danny—trusted him in the field with his life, anyway. There was only one way to find out if he could trust him with anything truly important and that was to keep coming back until all his questions had been answered.
"All right, you bastard," he whispered to the younger Danny. "I hope to God you know what you're doing."
The hum of an industrial strength vacuum broke his concentration and he rose with a grunt to gather up his coat. Pausing once more to glance at the family photo, his lips twisted in an unwilling smile.
Yeah, he thought with amused resignation as he turned off Danny's lamp. Some days are definitely better than others.
He just had to keep showing up.
June 22-July 3, 2003
There is no excuse for this other than I seem to have a sponge where my brain should be. Aithine—you make me so crazy—thanks, Angelfish. *g*
Feedback: email.