"You're sure about this."
It was a statement, not a question, the words steeped in disbelief and tinged with anger.
"Come on, Jack, you knew I was planning on leaving some day. I wasn't studying just for the hell of it, you know."
"Yeah, but why now? You know how short-handed this is going to leave me?"
Danny shrugged. "You get applications all the time."
Jack stood up from his desk and walked around it, circling behind Danny's chair and coming back to snatch the letter of resignation from its surface. "Two weeks? You think I can find someone in two weeks?"
He wanted to say it wasn't his problem, but Jack knew which buttons to push and he pushed them without hesitation. Danny had to leave, but it didn't stop guilt from gnawing at his gut every time he thought about the future he'd chosen and the life he was leaving behind. He'd once loved this job, more than he'd loved anything or anyone in a long time.
And deep inside he knew he'd love it still, if that same job hadn't brought hell to his doorstep in the form of Martin Fitzgerald.
He stood up and arched his back, trying to release some of the tension that had taken up residence in his muscles since making his decision. "Two weeks, unless we're in the middle of a case." He stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Jack. For everything."
Jack scowled at it and for a minute, Danny was afraid it wouldn't be taken. With a sharp sigh and a roll of his eyes, Jack tossed aside his resignation and grasped his hand, then inclined his head toward the bullpen.
"Lot of people are going to miss you around here, you know that?"
Not enough, Danny thought. Not nearly enough, and that's the problem.
"You want me to announce it now?" Jack continued. "It's a quiet day and everyone's here."
A thick ball formed in Danny's throat; this was the part he'd dreaded most, the scenario that'd kept him up at night since his choice had become inevitable. He wouldn't allow himself a glance, wouldn't dare cut his eyes to the left to see if Martin was lounging against his desk, trying to figure out why Danny was chatting in Jack's office on a day without an active case.
Straightening his tie and pasting a smile on his face, Danny nodded. "Now's good."
"Everyone, can I have your attention, please?"
Three expectant faces turned toward Jack as he approached the center table, three pairs of eyes passing him to try and connect with Danny, who met each gaze with a bland smile. Slipping behind Jack, he slid into his chair and turned it toward the table, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankles as if he didn't have a care in the world.
"Okay, I'm gonna make this short and sweet. Our boy Danny here's decided it's time to put out his own shingle."
"You passed the bar?"
Danny turned to Vivian with a lopsided grin, grateful that she'd been the first to speak. There was genuine pleasure in her voice, something not easily discernible in her placid expression. "Yeah, I did."
He looked past her to see Sam rushing toward him, arms outstretched for a hug he didn't want to share. He stood up anyway and opened his arms, his eyes closing as his cheek skidded across the smooth surface of her hair, disarranging it. She pulled back but held on to his arms and he was surprised to see tears in her eyes that belied the bright smile she gave him.
"You dog," she chided him on a laugh, "you weren't in Bermuda that week, were you?"
"You got me," he admitted smoothly. He'd always liked Sam, even when being in the same room with her had sometimes been more than he could bear. "Instead of working on my tan, I was holed up in the library trying to remember the difference between facilitation, mediation and negotiation. The first two I got—that last one, eh, not so much."
Sam leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. "Man's gotta do," she whispered against his ear. "Congratulations." And then she was pulling away, one arm tight around her abdomen, the other knuckling away a tear from the corner of her eye.
Jack had stayed back and Vivian, though she'd moved closer, was leaning against the center table, her face alight with quiet approbation. Everyone was accounted for, Danny thought with a twinge of panic, everyone except Martin. There was no one else to hide behind, nothing to keep him from doing the natural, expected thing and accept heartfelt good wishes from a co-worker.
Almost there, he told himself as he turned to his right, hard part's almost over. But instead of Martin standing beside him, hand outstretched and an easy, oblivious smile on his face, there was nothing but air. Martin hadn't moved from where he stood beside his own chair, a pen in one hand and a lined, yellow tablet in the other. His face was blank, his eyes wide as he stared at Danny as if he'd never seen him before.
In a heartbeat the look was gone, replaced with a congenial smile that Danny suspected was forced. Pen and pad were tossed aside and Martin crossed the small space between them, palm extended, exactly as Danny had pictured in his mind except for the complete lack of emotion in Martin's eyes.
"That's great, man," he said. "Really."
Their hands met in a firm, business-like grip. Up, down, and Martin was retreating back to his desk without a backward glance. Sam and Vivian began peppering him with questions that he deflected with half answers and teasing rejoinders. It wasn't until they both reacted with dismay to his announcement that he'd given two weeks notice that Martin stepped back into the conversation.
"Two weeks?" Martin strolled over to Danny's desk, a frown between his eyes. "That's a little quick, isn't it?"
Danny smirked at him, more because it was expected than from any real amusement. "Hey, I got a lot of stuff to do. Office space on Park Avenue isn't that easy to find these days. Not to mention investing in a whole new wardrobe."
There was no lightening in Martin's expression. "Yeah, the wardrobe thing I get, but Park Avenue? Doesn't seem to me to be your style."
"Yeah? What do think my style is?"
"Your style?" A hint of warmth crept into Martin's voice. "You're stubborn as hell and I think you're all about the underdog. It made you a damn fine agent and it's going to make you a damn good lawyer."
Flustered by Martin's starkly complimentary assessment, Danny tried to come back with a quick response but found he couldn't. Martin was already moving away again, as if by delivering his opinion he'd said everything he'd wanted to say about the drastic change Danny was making in his life. It left Danny feeling abandoned, confused by his own reaction to getting almost no attention from Martin. He thought he'd wanted a low-key response, but as he watched Martin reach for his phone, his back turned and broad shoulders straight, Danny experienced a sharp stab of disappointment, followed swiftly by a bitter internal sense of victory.
There was nothing for him here. He'd made the right choice.
Six months later
He'd memorized the address four months ago, torturing himself with the idea that he might need it someday, never dreaming he'd have to recall it under circumstances like these. He'd walked three blocks from where he'd had the cab drop him off, needing every step since then to organize his thoughts, and now he stood in front of a recessed door with a plate glass window beside it that had the words Daniel Alvarez Taylor, Attorney at Law, neatly lettered on its surface.
It was two in the morning, the summer air thick with moisture that clung to the back of his neck and clogged his lungs. He knew was he partially still in shock and that had a lot to do with the implacable force inside him that had made him leave the hospital, despite Sam's half-hysterical protests and Vivian's calm reasonings. They'd wanted him to call Danny first, or to go home and change, but he'd been deaf to their pleas and had slipped away unnoticed. There wasn't time to think about himself—and no phone call could accomplish what Martin knew he had to do.
The first cab had taken him to Danny's apartment, where repeated and prolonged ringing of the lobby buzzer had convinced him that Danny wasn't home. He wasn't surprised; from what both Vivian and Sam had said in casual conversations over the past few months, Danny was working eighteen and twenty hour days at his office, sleeping there more often than not.
Standing outside of Danny's office, the prospect wasn't promising: a store front in the middle of a street that had struggling businesses and decaying apartment buildings surrounding it as far as the eye could see. Most of the streetlights had either burned out or had been shattered, leaving the roughly paved street divided by sharp shadows. Many of the doorways had at least one homeless person huddled within them, barely clad individuals sprawled on sheets of cardboard. Thankfully the threshold of Danny's office was unoccupied, but the smell of urine and cheap alcohol was pervasive and nauseating.
The sound of breaking glass and the yowl of a cat prompted Martin to peer through the crooked slats of the fake wooden blinds that shuttered the inside of the window. There was a gleam of light from somewhere in the dark depths of the office but other than that, there was no sign of occupation. Stepping carefully around a patch of crumbling concrete that had once been the sidewalk, he rapped lightly on the door.
When there was no response, reaction to the events of the night began to set in. His thoughts scattered and he wondered how he'd get home, if he even wanted to go home, or if he should go back to the hospital and wait with everyone else. Danny might be anywhere, but the thought of not seeing him became almost unbearable and hazy tears formed in Martin's eyes as he pounded harder, slower, practically leaning on the door in exhausted desperation.
The faint crack of a bolt being thrown back alerted him enough that he rebalanced on his feet and blinked away the tears. The door opened a few inches, a chain spanning the small space that allowed Martin to see only a slice of the room beyond.
"Who's there?" Danny's voice was rich with sleep and distrust.
"It's Martin. Open the door."
There was a scrabbling sound as the chain was removed. The door opened wide and Martin and Danny looked at each other for the first time in almost six months.
"Jesus, Martin—what's wrong? Come on, come inside." Danny grabbed him by the arm and hauled him inside, pausing only to close the door and set the locks before herding Martin to the back of the office. Martin was so grateful that Danny was there that he barely noticed his surroundings, getting only a vague impression of boxes and mismatched file cabinets gathered around a large oak desk that occupied most of the space.
Hand still clutching his forearm, Danny led him past that to a cramped seating area beside a ladder-like staircase that broke through a lowered ceiling. He turned on another lamp and Martin blinked painfully, trying to clear his eyes.
"What the hell are you doing in this neighborhood in the middle of the night?" Even under the circumstances, Danny's tone was almost playful, until he got a good look at Martin. "What's that all over—oh, my God—is that blood?"
Danny was on him instantly, pulling off his FBI windbreaker and flinging it aside before Martin realized it. He looked down and saw long, rust-colored smears on his navy blue tee shirt that continued into dark-colored patches on his jeans.
"It's not my blood," he muttered. Danny's hands stilled and Martin looked up. "Not mine."
Danny's eyes drifted shut, his fingers flexing on Martin's shoulders. "Thank God."
Martin swallowed hard. "It's Jack's."
Danny stumbled back a step. "Jack's? What happened? Is he—is he okay?"
Martin scrubbed his face with both hands. "I don't—no, he's not. He's at Bronx Lebanon, he's—"
Martin swayed and Danny slipped an arm around him, leading him to a couch. Danny sat beside him, one hand lightly rubbing the back of Martin's neck.
"Is he dead?" Danny asked, his voice cracking.
"No, but it's not good." Martin raised anguished eyes to Danny's face. "They shot him in the back, Danny. In the fucking back. Even if he lives, they don't think—he may not walk again."
Saying the words robbed Martin of the last of his control and he started to rise as the room began to close in on him. Danny gripped his shoulder and turned him so that he could rest his palm against Martin's cheek.
"Martin, listen to me. You're in shock. Let me get you some water. Just stay here, okay? Okay?"
Martin nodded, bereft when Danny removed his hand and rose to his feet. He disappeared down a hallway as Martin leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He'd had one goal since leaving the hospital—finding Danny and telling him that Jack had been shot—and now that he'd completed that goal, the tide of adrenaline was receding. The rapid beating of his heart had subsided to a dull, heavy thud, and the sweat that trickled between his shoulder blades had turned clammy. He knew if he held up his hands, they'd be shaking.
"Martin."
Martin hadn't heard Danny return and he looked up to see Danny beside him, a look of concern on his face as he held out a bottle of water. Martin took it with a muttered thanks, absurdly grateful when Danny resumed his place beside him on the couch, canting his body toward Martin, so close their thighs touched. Despite the warmth of the night, Danny reached behind him and snatched a loosely woven blanket from the back of the couch, draping it around Martin's shoulders. When Martin had drained the bottle, Danny took it and set it aside.
"Better?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Martin nodded, reaching for some level of professionalism that would get him through the story. "Jack and I were checking out a lead on a missing union rep. We'd gotten a tip that someone who'd been harassing him had been seen around the docks, so we headed down there to ask around. Guess we asked the wrong question one too many times—next thing I knew we were pinned down and waiting for backup. Jack tried to move to a better position and went down with two slugs, one in his back, one in his leg."
"Jesus." Danny rubbed one hand over his head and Martin paused. Danny was always pale, but in the yellowish light of the table lamp, the skin above a prickly five o'clock shadow was taking on a waxy sheen.
"I'm sorry. This is rough—I know you two are close."
"Thanks. Yeah, we used to be, anyway. So what do you think went wrong?"
"I'm not sure, but according to some of the witnesses, it was was an am—it was an ambush—"
Martin shuddered to a stop and suddenly, without warning, it wasn't Jack's shooting he was reliving. Black dots began to dance before his eyes and he felt strong hands urging him forward until his head was between his knees.
It was crazy—he remembered so little of that night, yet his imagination had filled in where memory had failed. It'd been bad enough during his recuperation, so many lonely hours filled with nothing but his own grumpy company, but the times when he'd be coming down from a painkiller high had been the worst. That's when memory and imagination had merged and drawn him in to a dark place he never thought he'd go, taunting him with flashbacks that may or may not have been real. He'd been clean for almost year but he could still remember the long nights when the pain of withdrawal and the murky remembrances had left him in a cold sweat, wondering if he'd ever function as a whole person again.
Of course, he had—Danny had seen to that. Slowly the panic started to recede, pushed back by the warm hands of the man beside him and taking with it the cloudy memories and distinct horrors of two separate events.
Yet Martin found no peace in returning clarity. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he realized that since arriving at Danny's office, he'd left behind every promise he'd made to himself since the day he'd learned that Danny was quitting. All the bittersweet feelings, all the meaningless mind games he'd played to excise Danny Taylor from his life—it'd all been swept away with the need to see Danny, talk with him, somehow touch his life in the midst of tragedy. And as he took a deep breath to fight away the last of the dizziness, he knew that the lies he'd told himself, the ones about needing to be the one who told Danny about Jack because of some connection that had never really existed, or that Martin somehow owed Danny something more personal than a phone call—they were exposed by the truth that Martin needed Danny and time and distance hadn't changed that one, simple fact. Some part of Danny fit some part of him, but he'd never been able to acknowledge that until now, when he'd used the excuse of this terrible night and the threat hanging over the life of a friend to force his way back into Danny's life.
He'd be ashamed if he wasn't being rewarded by the stroking of Danny's hand against the knotted muscles of his neck. He wanted to lean into that touch and let it seduce him in to believing it was something it wasn't, but instead he lifted his head and managed a fleeting smile.
"You probably think I'm a wuss."
There was no answering smile. "I've thought a lot of things about you, but being a wuss was never one of them." Danny leaned closer until their heads nearly touched. "Seeing you covered in blood isn't exactly bringing back happy memories for me, either."
Martin flushed again, thankful for the relative gloom in the back of the office. One of the things he'd never let himself imagine was what Danny had gone through the night he'd been shot. He'd tried to talk to him about it the only time Danny had visited during Martin's recuperation, but the conversation had been frustratingly awkward. Danny had no desire to relive his own experience and hadn't stopped by again; the next time they'd seen each other had been the day Martin had returned to work. The awkwardness was still there and not knowing the source of it, Martin had let Danny off the hook and they'd gone back to a working relationship that lacked the easy camaraderie they'd managed to achieve before the shooting. He would've settled for Danny's friendship if he'd known how to get it back, but even that was taken away when his descent into addiction had killed even that dim hope.
Disgusted with himself that he'd been weak enough to seek solace in a place that couldn't offer any, Martin leaned back against the couch with a dismissive nod. Something in his demeanor must've given him away, because Danny stood up and grabbed a straight-backed chair, swinging it around so he could straddle it.
"So just tell me you got the bastard."
"Yeah. We got him."
His eyes fixed on crack in the worn linoleum at his feet, Martin was able to get through the rest of the story without hesitation, though he was aware that his voice had become monotone. There wasn't much more than he'd already imparted but he included everything else that he'd told Van Buren. When he looked up, Danny was gazing at him, his arms folded across the top of the chair and his chin resting on his forearms.
"Why didn't you just call me? I would've come to the hospital."
It was a reasonable question that Martin didn't have an answer for, at least one he could share with Danny. It didn't help that Danny looked different; not only had the suit and tie been replaced by a tight black tee shirt and low-riding, beltless black jeans, but there was a thin leather braid around his neck, centered at the base of his throat with some kind of bead. A dark stone nestled in his left earlobe and his short hair was sticking up all over, evidence of running his hands through it again and again. He was at once the Danny Taylor that Martin had fallen in love with and another man altogether, a mysterious, intriguing stranger; the combination was lethal and Martin looked away, unable to face what he could never have. He'd fooled himself into thinking that the ache that had lingered beneath his ribs since Danny had quit had been waning, but seeing Danny now made that ache flare into a sullen, wrenching pain he'd fought so long to avoid. He rose to his feet and tossed aside the blanket, knowing it was time for him to leave. He should never have come.
"I wanted you to hear it in person. Media was all over the place, so I'm pretty sure the story led the eleven o'clock news. Hell of a way to find out a friend's been shot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "Let me call Viv and check on his condition—that way we'll both be up to speed."
Vivian was on her way home and told Martin that Jack had stabilized enough that the doctors were confident he'd make it through the night. Sam was staying by his side and Marie was flying in from Chicago in the morning, so there was no reason for Martin to return to the hospital until visiting hours. She asked to speak to Danny and Martin handed over the phone, gathering up his windbreaker as they held a brief but warm conversation. As Danny was handing the closed phone back to Martin, it rang.
Martin flipped it open and, reading the name on the caller ID, gave Danny a glance and turned away. It was the last person he wanted to talk to, and the first person he should've called.
"Hey," he said quietly. The voice on the other end was concerned; Jack's shooting had indeed made the news. Martin spoke in hushed tones, reassuring the caller that he was fine and promising another phone call in the morning before hanging up. Turning back to Danny, he was surprised to see him standing close, his arms crossed over his chest and his head down, only looking up when Martin pulled his windbreaker on.
"Sam?" Danny asked.
"Uh, no. Listen, do you want to share a cab? I can drop you off at your place on my way home."
Danny grinned and pointed upward. "Nah. I have deluxe accommodations upstairs in the form of a very lumpy futon. Great for work nights, not so great for the back. Besides, I got clients coming in early."
Martin wished there was something else he could do or say, anything to keep even a small part of Danny in his life. He'd stayed away from Danny for six months, he'd tried to move on with his life and find happiness elsewhere—but Danny was an addiction stronger than any drug, and Martin was hopelessly hooked.
"I'd better go. I'm going to try and get to the hospital early, see how he's doing. You want me to call you?"
"Nah. I'll stop by myself. Maybe I'll see you there?"
Martin resolved instantly to avoid Danny at all costs, knowing he couldn't put himself through this again and that stiff conversations in a hospital corridor would never be enough now. Tomorrow, after he'd cleaned up and gotten some sleep, after the day's events were neatly compartmentalized, he'd look back on this night and try to forgive himself. Then he'd hide away his dreams and look toward to a future without Danny in it.
"Sounds good. Sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news, man. I just couldn't do it on the phone, you know? And since we were already in the Bronx..."
"Sure," Danny replied. His eyes took on an odd, liquid gleam in the lamplight. "I'm glad you came by. Next time I'll buy you a cup of coffee, give you the grand tour."
"Damn right you will." Martin looked around, letting his amusement show. "By the way, love what you've done with the place. What do you call this—early American slum lord?"
"I prefer to think of if as neoclassical crack house—without the crack, of course."
"Of course." They shared a grin reminiscent of old times before Martin jerked his thumb toward the door. "I'd better take off. I'm not really fit to be seen in public right now, not even in this neighborhood."
Danny snapped his fingers. "Hang on. I think I have an extra shirt around here somewhere."
"I don't need—" Martin began, but Danny was already racing up the stairs, returning quickly with a gray tee shirt that he handed to Martin.
"Put this on. FBI man walking out of here wearing a bloody shirt would do a lot for my street cred but we don't want you scaring the bums, okay?"
Martin did as he was told, quickly removing the windbreaker and stripping off the soiled garment before sliding Danny's tee shirt on. Then he turned the windbreaker inside out so the bright yellow lettering that proclaimed him to be FBI disappeared.
"Better?" he asked, holding out his arms.
"Yeah, you'll do," Danny murmured.
When Danny didn't say anything else, Martin tossed the stained shirt into a waste paper basket. "Thanks. Which way is the best way to get a cab?"
"Go left out the door, up two blocks. There's a bodega on the left side of the street. You'll get one there, no problem."
"Got it, thanks."
They shook hands and then Martin left, refusing himself even one last look. If coming here tonight had accomplished one thing, it had convinced him how foolish he'd been to think that six months was enough time to get over Danny Taylor. Six months or six years, he had a feeling it wasn't going to make any difference.
The hospital's aggressively air-conditioned lobby cooled the sweat on Danny's skin but did nothing to alleviate the nervous flutter in his belly. He was pretty sure he could charm his way in to see Jack despite the fact it was far too early for visiting hours, but there was always a chance that Martin had the same idea and was even now at Jack's side.
The thought terrified him, even as his step quickened. It'd only been a few hours since Martin had burst back into his life and stripped away the cocoon of protective lies that Danny had woven around himself since leaving the squad. Having Martin show up at his office—his smelly, unpacked, disorganized office—in the middle of the night had been exhilarating and devastating at the same time. The news that Jack had been shot had hit Danny hard, though he'd tried to hide it. He'd always had a healthy respect for Jack Malone and on good days, he'd even liked him.
As painful as that had been, and as worried as he was, nothing could override that first undiluted rush of joy when Danny heard Martin's voice through the door. For just a moment, a second, Danny had believed that Martin had come to him, that he'd seen through the veil of miscommunication that Danny had drawn between them and was going to demand an explanation. Instead, cold reality had been thrown in his face as Martin revealed the real reason for visiting Danny's office in the middle of the night. He'd been sound asleep in the loft above the office, having fallen there practically comatose less than an hour before after working most of the night on motions for his clients.
His clients. The notion almost made him laugh. Martin had been unimpressed by Danny's new work environment and that had only been what he could see in the semi-darkness. Had Martin seen it in the light of day, he would've been even less thrilled and Danny couldn't blame him. A crumbling store-front office in a bad part of town and a clientele that tried to pay him in clean laundry and chickens wasn't what he'd had in mind the day he'd left Missing Persons. Maybe if Arnold, his business partner of less than three months, hadn't died on him, things would have been different, if not better.
He shifted his motorcycle helmet from one hand to the other to press the elevator button, trying to smooth down his hair as he stepped into the car. The reflection in the door's distorted surface wasn't encouraging—bluish circles beneath his eyes, two days' growth of beard—but he'd come straight from the office and planned on a taking a shower later before heading to court. A surreptitious sniff of his tee shirt beneath his leather jacket assured him he wasn't going to offend anyone as he entered the intensive care ward, something he was grateful for when a floor nurse directed him to the waiting lounge.
It looked exactly like any other waiting room in every other hospital. Brightly upholstered furniture filled the space and dog-eared magazines were neatly stacked on a scratched coffee table. There was a TV perched high in one corner with CNN running mute and beneath it a small coffee station stacked with Styrofoam cups and plastic containers of tea bags. Curled up on one couch was Marie, fast asleep with her hand tucked beneath her cheek, and across the room sat Vivian, reading a paper and sipping from a cup.
"Hey," Danny said quietly. Vivian glanced up and smiled before setting the paper and cup aside. She rose to her feet and they met in the middle of the room, sharing a quick embrace before Vivian ushered them back into the corridor.
Danny set his helmet down on a small bench. "How is he?" he asked.
Vivian shrugged. "It's not good. He's going to need more surgery as soon as he's stronger. The doctors think he'll make it, but there's a good chance there'll be some level of paralysis."
"Jesus. How's Marie doing? Are the girls here?"
Vivian inclined her head toward the waiting room. "She left the girls in Chicago with their stepfather. Until we know more about Jack's condition, she figured it was best."
"I have to say, I'm kind of surprised she came at all."
"He's the father of her children and he may not make it. She came for them, if nothing else."
"Did Sam go home?"
"Yeah. I picked Marie up at the airport and she was gone by the time we got here."
"You haven't had a lot of sleep, I take it."
Vivian gave him a quick up and down glance. "Neither have you, judging by the look of you."
"What, you don't like my rock-n-roll lawyer chic?"
"Oh, is that what they're calling it now? I thought it was one of your old undercover looks. You always did have a thing for Serpico."
"Yeah, you're funny, Viv. Very funny."
"I think so."
Danny's grin faded. "Can I see him?"
"They won't let you in the room, but you can look through the glass. Come on."
She led him down the hall to a large reinforced window. Inside, Jack lay motionless beneath a light pink coverlet, his face sallow beneath a layer of black stubble. To Danny it seemed that all the rough-edged vitality of his former boss had been drained away, leaving behind a shell that was barely recognizable.
"He needs a haircut," he murmured
"What else is new. Come on." Vivian took his arm and walked him back to the waiting area. She peeked inside to see that Marie was still asleep as Danny removed his helmet from the bench so that they could sit down.
"So how are you? We haven't heard much from you lately."
"I'm good. Busy. Remember that guy Arnold, the one I was supposed to go into practice with? The one I met through my sister-in-law?"
"Sure. How's that working out?"
"Not so good. Guy died of a heart attack last month, left me with five months of a six month lease and about two hundred clients. Did I mention that they were indigent clients?"
Vivian's eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound good. How are you handling it?"
"One day at a time," Danny said with a grin. "Actually, the law practice part isn't so bad. It's the damn bookkeeping that's killing me. Arnold never used an accountant or a billing service—he kept it all in his records. Records, by the way, that he wrote in shorthand."
"Sounds like you need some help."
"It does, yeah, but I'm living off my savings as it is. Until I can make ends meet I can't even think about taking on an assistant."
"Well, let me know if there's something I can do, okay?"
"I will, I promise. How's Elena working out?"
"She's doing okay. Still trying to get her bearings and pissing Jack off on a regular basis just like any rookie."
"Oh yeah, I remember that feeling. She's tough, though, she'll get over it. How's Sam?"
"She has a new boyfriend, did you know that? Nice guy, stockbroker, I think."
"Good for her. What's going on with the squad? Any juicy cases lately?"
Vivian looked down at her hands. "Danny, things have been different since you left."
There was an odd inflection in her tone that caught Danny's attention. "Different how?"
She shrugged and looked away before meeting his gaze. "The politics have gotten worse. Van Buren's only nominally in control now and OPR is around every other week, looking over our shoulders. Jack's been fighting back but there's only so much he can do, and now with this? I don't know how much longer they'll keep us together."
"You think they'll dismantle the team? Well, that'd make Martin's dad happy, anyway."
Vivian shook her head. "Martin's dad isn't involved this time. In fact," she paused, weighing her words, "he and Martin have had a bit of a falling out. I'd be surprised if they've spoken at all in the past couple of months."
Danny let out a low whistle. "It must be pretty bad. Daddy Fitzgerald isn't one to back down. What'd Martin do, vote Democratic in the last election?"
Vivian's smile was fleeting but genuine. "That I think he'd get over. This is something a little more personal."
Danny nudged her with his shoulder. "Go on, you can tell me. I can keep a secret."
"It's no secret, but it's not something that's generally known." She placed her hand on his arm and gave it a light squeeze. "And I'm only telling you because I'm your friend and I care about you, okay?"
"Yeah, sure." Danny swallowed, suddenly apprehensive about what Vivian was about to tell him. Her statement of friendship felt less like a reassurance and more like a warning. "What is it?"
Vivian slid her hand down until their fingers entwined. When she spoke, it was in a voice of gentle regret. "Let's just say Sam isn't the only one with a new man in her life."
At first Danny was sure he'd misheard—the comparison just didn't connect. Even more confusing was the compassion in Vivian's dark eyes, as if she knew this revelation would hurt Danny and was sorry for it.
"You mean—" he began and then stopped, shaking his head. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that—"
"Yes. He's been very discreet. He only told me one night during a stakeout after I'd pretty much guessed."
Danny's head was whirling, trying to make sense of it all, knowing that the full impact of Vivian's statement had yet to hit. "Does Jack know? Does Sam?"
"Jack, yes. Sam, I think so, judging by the way she's been treating him lately."
"I—I had no idea," Danny said quietly
The hand in his tightened. "I think you did."
"Viv, I—"
"No, hold on. I'm not accusing you of anything and I'm not trying to get into your business. But I didn't watch the two of you dance around each other for four years without noticing that there was something going on. What I also noticed is that neither of you are very good at communication but when you left, I figured that was it, that you two were past whatever was between you. Now I'm not so sure."
"What makes you say that?"
Vivian held out her other hand and Danny laid his palm on top of it. "Think about it. Last night, the only thing Martin wanted to do was find you, someone he hasn't seen for months." She squeezed his hands and released him. "You do the math, okay?"
Rising to her feet, she glanced at her watch. "The cafeteria is open, so I'm going to go get some breakfast. Will you stay here just in case Marie wakes up?"
"Sure, no problem."
Vivian nodded toward the helmet next to Danny's feet. "What kind of ride?"
"BMW R 1200 ST. It's the other thing I inherited from Arnold besides the classy clientele."
"Very nice. Of course, if Reggie ever came home with such a thing, I'd ground him for life."
"Same thing goes for Marcus, I bet."
"Damn straight. I'll be back in half an hour."
Forty-five minutes later, Danny was straddling the BMW and strapping on his helmet, wondering if he looked as shell-shocked as he felt. As the bike thrummed to life between his knees, his innate honesty made him admit that shock was only preliminary to the emotion he knew was waiting for him. He could function perfectly normally—he'd get cleaned up, go to court, then back to work for office hours and more of the work he'd come to love and loath at the same time.
But lurking in the back of his mind would be heartbreak, heavy and inevitable. Whether he went home to snatch a few hours' sleep or stayed and worked through the night, the specter of what might have been would be there waiting for him. Martin was beyond him now, even farther away than when he'd been with Sam. He'd made peace with that relationship because it had ended his dreams. Vivian's words had shattered that peace and had dredged up feelings that had always been far too near the surface, even after Danny had left the FBI. Martin had come to him, as a friend, but if what Vivian had suggested was correct, there was more than friendship in the gesture.
That's where Danny drew the line. He would not let himself read more into the situation than there was—it was going to be hard enough forgetting the feel of Martin beneath his hands, or the damn dimple that had showed itself when Martin had teased him about his office. There was no hope in such a brief encounter, no future he could claim. Someone else had that place with Martin now, and it was left to Danny to move on.
"Morning."
Martin looked up from his computer screen and saw Vivian crossing his line of sight.
"Hey, good morning. Good news about Jack, huh?"
Vivian locked her purse and gun in a drawer and joined Martin at his desk.
"Better, anyway." She leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed her arms. "A few days ago we didn't know if he was going to live, so anything is an improvement. He has a long road ahead of him, that's for sure."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. If someone told me I had a good chance of being paralyzed for the rest of my life, I'd be reaching for my gun."
Vivian glared at him. "No, you wouldn't, and neither will Jack. Now, have you heard from OPR? They're supposed to be here today to go over the shooting."
Martin slouched low in his chair. "Yeah. I have to meet with them at two and then I'm going to head over to the hospital. Did Marie get off okay?"
"She did. She'll try and come back with the girls when they move Jack out of ICU. It's going to be hardest on them, you know. Reggie had a tough time of it when I was sick—you just don't like to think of your parents as vulnerable."
"Trust me," Martin said with a scowl, "that's the last thing I ever thought about my dad."
"Have you talked to him lately?"
Martin picked up a pen and started rolling it between his fingers. "No. Mom says he's been traveling a lot. I guess he can't stand to be in the same time zone as me."
"Give him time." She patted his shoulder and straightened up.
"Yeah, right," Martin muttered. "This is my father we're talking about. He's still convinced global warming is an urban myth concocted by National Public Radio." Vivian grinned and moved away, greeting Sam as she entered the bullpen. Martin exchanged another in a series of chilly good mornings with her before turning back to his desk and trying once more to concentrate on finishing his reports.
But before he'd even typed one word, his eyes unfocused and he was back in Danny's office. Instead of weakening over the intervening days, the impulse that had driven him to seek Danny out was growing stronger. He found himself dreaming up and discarding the slimmest reasons to contact him again, anything from showing up with coffee to get the promised tour to calling to asking if he wanted to catch a Mets game. Everything sounded stiff and adolescent but he couldn't stop himself. Every scenario ended with Danny's welcoming grin and a re-established friendship, something Martin told himself that he'd be satisfied to have.
It was just one more lie, but it comforted him anyway.
The union representative they'd been searching for had been found face down in a vat of concrete on a New Jersey pier, ending their case and leaving them to the tender mercies of the OPR. New cases were being diverted from them until the investigation was complete, but it was only delaying the inevitable. Jack was gone and the squad was in disarray, despite Van Buren's assurances that everything would work out. For Martin, nothing had been okay since Danny had left, but he was determined to stick it out even though he believed that the team was going to be disbanded.
He rolled the idea around in his head and found he really didn't mind. He could work for Vivian if that's the way the brass decided to go, but things with Sam had become uncomfortable. She'd never come right out and said that she knew about the new person in Martin's life, but a sudden change in her attitude toward him pointed to that fact. He guessed he could understand how she felt—it's not easy finding out a former lover didn't play on just one side of the street—but if she didn't come to terms with it, things were going to go beyond uncomfortable.
He was thinking about her as he was leaving ICU later that afternoon. Jack was able to have visitors for very short periods of time but Martin had come at the end of visiting hours and had been turned away. It was too late to go back to the office—nothing to do there, anyway—so he'd reached for his cell phone and paged through the listings, pausing when Sam's number came up.
It was hard now to believe that he'd been able to deceive himself so thoroughly when it came to Sam—and even harder to believe that it'd taken him so long to figure things out. He'd stopped blaming her long ago and put the blame squarely on his own shoulders, realizing that she'd only tried to give what he really wanted from someone else. It wasn't her fault that she'd failed.
The next name that came up on the list was Danny's. Martin hadn't deleted Danny's defunct work cell number and the next number after that was his home phone, since all members of the squad had to have complete accessibility to each other, including private phone numbers. Martin knew that Danny had a new cell phone number and a new business number, but he'd never allowed himself the indulgence of adding them to his call list. His thumb paused first over the call button, then the delete button, before paging past and finding the number he'd decided to use.
The phone was answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Scottie, it's me. Yeah, I'm just leaving—I was too late to see him. You want to get a bite to eat?"
Martin had met Scott Young at a pickup basketball game near his NA meeting. He'd left one night after a session, feeling restless and trying not to think about Danny. Passing a schoolyard, he'd noticed four men playing half court and one sitting on the side, waiting to be tagged in. He backtracked along the chain link fence until he stood behind the waiting player, sliding his fingers through the links and give the fence a little shake.
"Hey, you looking for another player?"
The man rose from the bench and turned around and Martin saw someone about his own age with a dark, sharp-featured face and a crooked grin.
"Yeah." The stranger gave Martin an exaggerated once-over. "You're a little overdressed, but if you can dribble, you're in."
Martin was already stripping off his jacket as he walked toward the playground's entrance.
"I can dribble," he said as he joined the player at the bench. He tossed aside the jacket and started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "And sometimes, when I throw the ball, it even goes in that thing with the hoop." He stuck out his hand. "Martin Fitzgerald."
His hand was taken in a firm grip. "Scott Young. Hey guys? We got us a sucker—I mean a a new player. His name's Martin and he says he can dribble. Let's hope he's not referring to his table manners."
Three weeks and eight games later, Scott had asked Martin to go out for a drink. Scott was a physical therapist and had a flexible schedule, which had made it easy for Martin to call him when he had some down time. Things had turned intimate not long after that, and Martin had been so relieved that he'd been able to connect in another relationship that he'd managed to ignore the cracks of his slowly shattering heart.
Then it'd all gone to hell and every instinct inside Martin had driven him to Danny. Scott hadn't crossed his mind once, and there was enough guilt left over from that night that he'd made a point of calling Scott more often in the past few days. They agreed that Scott would swing by the hospital and pick Martin up so they could get some dinner, somewhere where Martin could watch baseball, a game Scott tolerated only for Martin's sake. It was going to take him at least half an hour to cross town, so Martin went to the gift store and grabbed a Sports Illustrated before returning to the waiting area.
"Martin."
It was Vivian crossing the lobby toward him, a large paper bag in her hand and Reggie behind her. Martin rose and set the magazine aside.
"Hi, Viv. How you doing, Reggie?" Reggie shrugged and rolled his eyes, something Martin recognized as a teen-aged imitation of his mother. "It's too late to see Jack—they kicked me out about twenty minutes ago."
Vivian held up the paper bag. "I know. I brought some things from his apartment. He's going to be here a while, he may as well have his own pajamas, right?"
Martin stared at Vivian, who looked back calmly. "That's right," he said around the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, I should've thought of that. Is there something else I can do, something I can get for him?"
"Don't worry about it, there's plenty of time for that. Listen, you got a minute before I head upstairs? I want to talk to you."
"Sure." Martin gestured toward the couch he'd been occupying. "Over there?"
"Nah, this won't take that long. Reggie, you want to go get a soda or something? We'll only be a few minutes."
They watched him lope off toward the small coffee shop off the lobby, his legs in their baggy shorts seemingly too small for the large athletic shoes on his feet. "He's getting big," Martin said.
"Tell me about it," Vivian replied with a sigh. "Listen to me, Martin. You and I have had some interesting times together, but we're friends, right?"
Martin nodded warily. "Yeah, sure."
"Then listen to what I'm about to say and realize it comes from someone who cares about you."
Again Martin nodded, feeling a little like a school boy about to get his knuckles rapped.
"It's about Danny."
The bottom dropped out of Martin's stomach and he took a step back. "What about him?"
"Frankly, for a guy who stood by you when it would've been a hell of a lot easier to walk away, you're not doing such a great job returning the favor."
"What—what do you mean?"
"Must be something in the water," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Here's the thing. Danny needs help from his friends. Namely you."
Martin glanced around, wishing this conversation was over. "Why me?"
"Because you're probably the only person he knows who can tell a debit from a credit."
"I still don't—"
"His business, okay? His partner died and left the books in a mess. Danny needs someone that can get him straightened out and I happen to know there was a reason you were in white collar crime back in Seattle. Any of this ringing a bell with you?"
"Yeah, but we're talking about Danny Taylor. Do you think he'd take any help from me?"
"Won't know until you try, right?" Vivian's eyes flickered past his shoulder. "There's someone over there staring at you. Do you know him?"
Martin looked across the lobby to see Scott When he saw he had Martin's attention, he waved and pointed toward the parking lot. Martin nodded and Scott slipped back through the automatic doors.
"Yeah, that's my—that's Scott."
"Hmm." Viv's smile took on that Mona Lisa quality that always made Martin nervous. "For a minute there, I thought it was Danny." Her voice turned brusque. "I'm gonna go get Reggie and run this upstairs. I'll see you tomorrow. Think about what I said, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Um, good night."
It took two minutes for Martin to get his feet to move and when they did, they led him back to the couch where he sat down and covered his eyes with his hands.
I thought it was Danny.
Jesus Christ—why hadn't he seen it before?
"No, señora, for the last time, you cannot sue your daughter's boyfriend for getting her pregnant."
The woman slammed her pocketbook on Danny's desk. "Someone has to pay!"
Danny tugged at the hoop in his ear and surreptitiously glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already ten minutes to five and he still had people waiting to speak to him, which meant that office hours were going to run over again. No doubt they had problems just as dire as Mrs. Diavolo, who was sure that suing the father of her daughter's unborn child was going to make things right. Unfortunately, he wasn't going to be able to help them anymore than he could help her.
He rose to his feet and gave her his most charming smile. "Señora, you need to see Family Services over on Delaney. Here—" he picked up a card from the pile on his desk "—call the number and they'll help you out. Okay? Sí?"
He ushered her to the door with soft words and respectful nods, listening sympathetically as her anger dissolved into frustrated tears. He heard her out, then joked with her gently until her tears were dry and she was promising not to shoot the kid when he came around again. It wasn't exactly arguing in front of the Supreme Court, but it was a victory anyway.
A victory that was short-lived; as Danny turned away from the door, he surveyed the small waiting room he'd made in the front third of his office. Of the eight mismatched chairs he'd placed in a semi-circle around a low coffee table that was missing a leg, three were still occupied. Two were new clients that had obviously heard about Danny taking over Arnold's cases and one was a returning customer who had a legitimate problem that Danny would be eager to work on if he wasn't already near exhaustion.
Two hours later the front door was locked and he was back at his desk, staring blearily at his screen. He missed the speed of the FBI computers, especially when the concentrated heat of the day made even the brick walls surrounding him seem to sweat. Slowly loading pages and the occasional crash had his temper riding on a knife's edge but knowing he had at least four more hours of research ahead of him, he resigned to himself to ordering pizza after running to the bodega for another case of bottled water.
His life was a disaster and he didn't know how to fix it. The partnership that he thought would catapult him into cutting edge urban law had collapsed with the untimely death of Arnold Deavers, a pony-tailed, sixty-year old throwback who believed that the war for civil rights was still being fought on the streets of New York. Sylvia had hired Arnold after Raffy's sentencing, since Danny's brother had left her with more than just a pile of debts, a broken heart and a bewildered son. Arnold had helped her settle a dispute with her landlord and she'd introduced him to Danny right after he'd passed the bar. Once he'd gotten his New York license, they'd put together what they'd hoped would be a new kind of law firm, one that would fill a badly needed vacancy for low income families.
But Arnold had a heart attack while visiting his family in Hoboken one pretty spring morning, and Danny had been fighting to hold on to his sanity ever since. It wasn't that he didn't like what he did—because most days, he did–but the lack of preparation and the sheer number of clients who needed him were inexorably chipping away at his enthusiasm. He was trapped by his very real desire to help these people and the inescapable truth that it was wearing him down to the bone.
And that didn't even cover the bookkeeping that was being ignored. He'd looked into billing services, temp agencies and community colleges for anyone who'd be able to help with the accounting, but they'd either been too expensive or too inexperienced. Now he had a pile of notes and sticky pads with names and amounts written on them scattered around his desk. The few checks he'd managed to get paid with were stuffed in a drawer, alongside a small roll of cash from a client he'd received only the day before. He'd never planned on getting rich as a lawyer, but he'd never intended to go broke, either.
Another hour passed before Danny knew it; only the grumbling in his belly reminded him that he hadn't eaten since a hurried sandwich over his kitchen sink. He was reaching for the pizza menu stuck to the side of his desk when he heard a sharp tap. He looked up to see Martin at his window, one hand cupped over his eyes as he peered inside, the other carrying what looked like a laptop case.
The weariness suffusing Danny's soul fell away as he rose to his feet to hurry over to the door. He had no idea why Martin was here and he didn't care—all he knew was that everything seemed better just because Martin was outside his door.
He threw back the bolt and chain and opened the door with a flourish.
"I'm sorry, sir, we're closed for the day, but if you'd like to come back tomorrow—"
"Very funny." Martin brushed past him with a grin that turned into a grimace. "Jesus, it's like a sauna in here."
"Tell me something I don't know. Like what you're doing here." Danny left the door open and repositioned the second-hand fan he'd brought in to circulate the steamy air. It was early evening and enough light flowed through the window that he was sure Martin could see every dirty corner, every broken brick, every cobweb that drifted beneath the high ceiling.
Martin lifted the case. "A little bird told me you were having trouble keeping the books."
Danny place his hands on his hips and lowered his head. "Vivian."
"Yep."
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, actually I do."
"Look, if this is some kind of gratitude thing—"
"It's not a gratitude thing, it's a friendship thing. We are still friends, aren't we?"
Danny registered Martin's challenging tone and startled to bristle; in less than three minutes he'd forgotten he'd been on the edge of despair and was getting ready to defend himself by saying that he didn't need anyone's charity, not even from a so-called friend. But there was something beyond Martin's smartass rejoinder that also caught Danny's attention and as he looked closer at Martin's face, it was what he didn't see that confused him. There was no impatient desire to leave now that the gesture had been made, no bruised pride that said Martin was going to bail if his offer wasn't appreciated.
Instead there was the smallest smile curving his mouth, as if the scene was playing exactly as he'd expected. It was as though he was waiting for Danny to run through his list of objections and was ready to counter every one.
Like a cartoon light bulb over his head, Danny suddenly saw the irony in the situation. He'd been wanting some kind of miracle to help him out of the mess he was in and fate had rewarded him—or punished him—with the last person Danny would have chosen to deliver that miracle. Even worse, if this had happened before Vivian's revelation of Martin's new relationship, Danny would have welcomed the situation, maybe even thinking of it as a prelude to something else. Now all he saw was something he desperately needed provided by someone he could never have.
But Martin was also someone that Danny had a hard time denying, and looking into blue eyes filled with humor and gentle entreaty, Danny folded. He let the smile that he'd been fighting shine through, the tell-tale lifting of his heart mocking him even as he clapped his hands together in a let's-get-down-to-it gesture.
"Yes, we're still friends, but you may not want to claim that after you get a look at what you're up against." He gestured toward the case Martin was holding. "You need 'net access for that?"
"Nah, I have all the programs already loaded, the same ones I used when I taught accounting."
"Then let's get to it."
Martin held the case away like it was a toy he was using to tease a toddler. "No way, man, not until you feed me."
"Feed you? You come pretty cheap, don't you? Pizza okay?"
"Yeah, but none of that Canadian bacon and pineapple crap. Something with real meat on it."
"You are in the Bronx, my friend. You'll get pepperoni and like it."
"What is this?" Martin held up a grease-stained receipt that had something scrawled in smeared ink on the back. Danny squinted at it from his desk and Martin stretched his arm closer, tipping back one of the waiting area chairs so Danny could get a better look.
"Um, that is an I.O.U. from Mr. De La Cruz. I filed a motion for his kid before he was sent upstate."
"What's it say that he owes you?"
Danny leaned back in his chair, ignoring its plaintive squeak. "Fifty bucks and one year of free shoe repair, I think."
Without blinking an eye, Martin set the receipt in a pile of others just like it and made an entry on a spreadsheet program. "The way I see it," he said, pointing to the stack of receipts, "you won't have to do your own laundry, mow your own lawn or walk your own dog for at least a year. Plus you have tarot readings, palm readings and something about chicken gizzards here, all in exchange for legal services done by you and your partner."
"Which is great if I had a lawn, which I don't, or a dog, which I don't, or had time to have my palm read, which I don't."
"Right. Put all that together and you also don't have money for rent, food or subway tokens."
"So you're saying I'm screwed."
"No, I'm saying you need a billing program and a fee schedule. Both of which I'm putting together for you."
"You are? I didn't think the pizza was that good."
"It wasn't." Martin rose to his feet and plucked at his shirt where sweat had plastered it to his body. "I'm gonna grab another water. You want one?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Danny watched Martin pass him on his way to the small kitchen in the back, then glanced at the clock. It was almost ten; he and Martin had been working companionably for almost four hours. Martin had sorted through the detritus on Danny's desk and pulled out everything that even remotely looked like a bill. He gathered up all the receipts and sticky notes, the small stack of checks and the cash and had it all neatly laid out before Danny had the pizza ordered.
The pizza was long gone and the heat of the day had them drinking water constantly, but finally the cool evening air was beginning to penetrate the thick walls, making the room bearable if not comfortable. Danny hardly noticed—all he really knew without question was that he'd never seen anything as sexy as Martin Fitzgerald with a pencil stuck behind his ear, tapping at his little hand-held calculator and mumbling to himself as he made entries on his spreadsheet. Martin hard at work on something that meant so much to Danny was revealing in a new and entirely unwelcome way, because Danny was already attached to this latest twist in their relationship. Having him here, working quietly as Danny got some much needed research done, was like rain to his arid existence, giving him hope and encouragement in every teasing remark and casual glance. It was comfortable and easy and if this was all Danny could have, then he'd make sure he cherished every minute.
But damn Martin for not making it easy on him. He'd arrived wearing a denim shirt and Levi's, but the shirt was long gone in deference to the heat. The short sleeves of the grey tee shirt underneath had been rolled up, revealing well-defined arms that had kept Danny distracted for the better part of fifteen minutes. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, these simmering, just beneath the surface wavelets of desire that he'd learned to live with for so long. Six months away from Martin had granted Danny only a reprieve, because just a few hours in Martin's company had brought it all back—the attraction, the affection, the need.
But he could never let Martin see it and he could never let himself give in to the fantasy that Martin could feel the same way.
"Okay." Martin returned from the back and handed off a cold bottle of water. "I'm almost done getting you caught up but there's a lot of stuff left to do. Since at least one of us is still employed by the government, I'd better come back—"
Danny wasn't sure what caught his eye—a stray gleam of light where there should have been none, or the unconscious registration of a car that had passed his window more than once in the past few minutes. Whatever it was, it gave him a tiny sliver of time to grab Martin by the arm and drag him down behind his desk just as the front plate window was shattered by bullets.
Danny knew he was yelling but he couldn't hear anything. He flattened himself against the brick wall and clutched Martin to his chest, both of them scrambling to get behind the questionable safety of the heavy oak desk. Around them the room filled with dust and debris as cabinets and lights exploded with the force of semi-automatic gunfire. Splinters of wood cascaded down on them, the rail defining the small loft above turned into matchsticks.
There was no question of returning fire. By the time Martin had his weapon unholstered and Danny had dragged his gun out of the bottom drawer of his desk the car was gone and the world was quiet again, save for the pop and crackle of destroyed electronics. There was a breathless moment of horror as Danny and Martin paused, trying to see each other in the newly created gloom, then Martin was moving with Danny right behind him, both of them running to the door and into the dark street.
There was nothing to see. The street was momentarily quiet, not even the sound of a dog barking, but as they turned around each other looking for taillights, people began yelling and lights began to shine in the surrounding windows. Within seconds the sidewalks were filled with onlookers and the wails of approaching sirens added to the din.
To Danny it was all background noise as he turned to face the destruction of what had so briefly been his.
The front plate window was completely gone, and as he moved on to the sidewalk to peer inside, he saw that most of the front half of the office had been destroyed. Only one chair in the small waiting area was still upright, the plastic garden chair he'd found in someone's trash. The overhead lights were sparking, giving him sharp, nightmarish glimpses into what had once been the law offices of Daniel Alvarez Taylor.
"Danny, c'mon, let's get you to the hospital."
The words didn't register and Danny shook off the hand that had fallen on his shoulder. He started to step over the low threshold of the window frame but stumbled, throwing out a hand that was taken in a firm grip.
"Danny, listen to me, okay? There's an ambulance on the way, so let's move away and wait for them, okay?"
Danny turned to Martin, almost surprised he was still there. With a spurt of panic he reached for him, the memory of gunfire and Martin and shattered glass converging in his head and making him dizzy. A minute or an hour later he was satisfied that Martin was fine but he was also somehow sitting on the bumper of a car, both of Martin's hands wrapped securely around his arm. Martin was saying something to him but the roar in his ears was growing worse.
"Martin?"
"Yeah, I'm right here. Hang on."
Danny's eyes closed. "You're okay, right?"
There was a small choking sound near his ear. "Oh, yeah, I'm great. Just—Danny? Danny?"
But Danny was no longer listening. The back of his head felt like it was on fire and Martin's shoulder was so close that he leaned into it, abruptly tired and wishing that Martin would curve his arm around his shoulders and support him.
He wasn't sure if it happened, but it was a nice dream.
"So you saved it. You saved all of it?"
"What part of 'I backed up all your files' do you not get?"
"But I saw it—your laptop, my computer—they were toast."
"We're still not too sure what you saw, right? You weren't what they call coherent at the time."
Danny's hand drifted up to touch the bandage on the back of his head. "That's an exaggeration. I was perfectly capable of understanding that someone shot up my livelihood."
"Oh, yeah, absolutely. You were functioning on all cylinders right up until the time you decided to take a header on to the pavement."
"Yeah, but you caught me, right?"
"Yeah, against my better judgment. You were bleeding from that whack on your skull, so I couldn't let you just mess up a perfectly good street."
"That was very thoughtful of you."
"Don't mention it. So when are they springing you from this place?"
"Couple of hours, unless I can convince the doctor that I'm okay and I can leave with you." Danny's tone was artfully hopeful, but Martin wasn't ready to let himself be convinced it was a good thing. He was already kicking himself for not seeing the blood soaking Danny's collar, evidence of falling debris that had struck Danny across the back of his head. It wasn't until Danny began to sway as they were surveying the damage that Martin caught on that he was injured, and echoes of the piercing fear he'd felt when Danny had collapsed in his arms was still with him.
He admitted he was torn; leaving Danny at the hospital felt like abandonment, a feeling Martin knew well. Making sure the doctors agreed that Danny was okay was his first priority, so he glanced at his watch and nodded. "Why don't you just hang here until they're sure you won't fall down and crack your head again. I'll head back to your office and see how the boarding up is coming along. What did the cops say?"
Danny shrugged and settled back against the upraised bed. "I told them as much as I could about any dissatisfied clients, but they didn't seem too interested."
"Anyone in particular you've pissed off recently enough they'd go gunning for you last night?"
"Nah, the only drama I've had is Mrs. Diavolo who wanted to shoot the kid that knocked up her daughter."
"Any reason she'd want to shoot you instead?"
Danny looked affronted. "Mrs. Diavolo loves me. I sent her to the family services clinic for counseling."
"Maybe that didn't go over too well at home. Maybe the prospective father isn't too pleased with your interference." Martin glanced up from the notes he was scrawling on a scrap of paper. "What are you grinning at?"
"You." Danny crossed his arms over his chest. "You're cute when you're acting all FBI, you know that?"
Martin felt a blush crawl up his cheeks. "Must be the meds. You got an address for Mrs. Diavolo?"
"Sure. In the records you said you backed up. Did I mention I'm not real sure how you did that?"
Martin tapped Danny's leg aside and hitched his hip on the edge of the hospital bed, absently suppressing a wince. Due to overcrowding in the Bronx Lebanon emergency ward, Danny had been forced to remain at the hospital far longer than necessary, but they'd yet to find a doctor with time to sign him out. Martin had left Danny there, grumpy but conscious, several hours before with promises of making sure that if there was anything of value left at his office, he'd grab it.
"I'd backed up what I had on my laptop and stuck it in a flash drive, so that was in my pocket already. The hard drive on your PC was protected by the cinder blocks you used to support it off the floor, right? So while you were sleeping off all the excitement I ran it over to the computer lab at work and they salvaged the drive out of the box."
"In the middle of the night?"
Martin shrugged. "You know those guys, they're computer geeks. They were just hitting their stride when I showed up. Frankly, they were pretty disappointed I didn't have something a little more sexy for them to play with."
"Well, excuse me for getting my office all shot to hell."
"Don't take it personally. They were happy to do it for an old friend, even if he did become a lawyer. Oh, before I forget." He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a key with a yellow tag attached to it. "Here's the key to a storage locker and the combination to the front door is on the tag. I rented it for a week—figured that should be long enough for you to find a new place."
Danny took the key with obvious reluctance. "I really don't know how to thank—"
Before he could finish, Martin patted his knee and stood up. "Forget it." He started to turn away but was stopped cold by a vicious twinge near his hip that made him gasp. He was peripherally aware of movement beside him as Danny lurched upright and latched on to Martin's wrist.
"Martin?"
"Yeah, it's okay. Just give me a minute." He closed his eyes and breathed through it, trying to use Danny's touch to anchor him. It'd been almost ten hours since the drive-by and once the adrenaline had worn off he'd been increasingly aware of various pulled muscles and sore areas, including a nasty bruise across his abdomen from the corner of Danny's oak desk. In trying to compensate for the discomfort he'd been carrying his body differently, and now he was paying for it.
He inhaled carefully, aware that sweat was gathering on his forehead. Pain was something he had to manage now; through a lot of work he'd accumulated the resources to do that, but sometimes it was so damn hard. Giving in to the insistent pressure of Danny's touch, he twisted his hand until their fingers entwined. He was beyond exhaustion and as Danny's thumb began to rub lightly across his knuckles all he could think about was getting Danny home and then sleeping for twenty-four hours.
As the discomfort retreated he opened his eyes to stare at the floor, wishing he had the guts to explain to Danny that friendship had only a little to do with what Martin was feeling. He glanced up when his hand was given a gentle shake, planning on giving Danny a grin that would ease them out of the moment. He had some inane comment to make but the words died in his throat when his eyes locked with Danny's, and suddenly Martin was in freefall. Everything he'd felt about Danny, including the love that he'd kept hidden and the pain that it caused—all of it was reflected in Danny's eyes. In them he saw the longing and the uncertainty that Martin had lived with since the day he'd realized that Danny Taylor—brash, compassionate, beautiful Danny Taylor—had become everything to him. Watching him leave the missing persons squad had ripped Martin apart and left him in pieces that he'd tried hard to put back together, but he'd never imagined that Danny was just as broken as he was.
Then the expression was gone and Danny's eyes drifted away as he released Martin's hand. He could feel Danny retreating from him emotionally as well as physically as Danny pushed back into the bed and once again crossed his arms over his chest. Martin almost thought he'd imagined the yearning in Danny's eyes, until he saw that beneath the protective posture, Danny's hands were clenched into fists.
"Look," he said, jerking his head toward the door, "I'd, uh, better get moving if I want to see Jack before I go."
"Don't you have to work?"
"Nah, I called in, remember?" Martin stepped aside as a nurse arrived, giving him a pointed look of dismissal. "So don't be surprised if Vivian and Sam show up before you go. Hey, your cell still works, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Call me when you're released and I'll grab a cab and come get you."
"Martin, I am not an invalid and I can get my own cab."
Martin grinned at him, gladdened by the surly tone and the return of Danny's cocky attitude. "Suit yourself. Just let me know you made it home so I'm not calling out the goon squad to find you. After you get some rest, I'll stop by and bring the files."
"And you're sure my bike's okay?"
"Your bike is fine, locked up safe and sound inside the Fifty-seventh street police lot and by the way, I'm impressed. Hell, I'm even envious."
"You should be—ow! " Danny jerked away from the nurse as she probed his head wound, attempting to swing his legs to the floor and scowling when Martin pressed up against the bed to block him. "I'm not waiting. I'm gonna—"
"No, you don't. Listen, man, there's not much left that I didn't already throw in a box. If somebody wants your coffee mugs and your Mets calendar, let them have them. I'll make sure the window's boarded and the locks still are good."
Danny's jaw tightened briefly, then he slumped and nodded. Martin could see that Danny was not only tired and hurting, but he'd also received an emotional kick in the gut that he'd fully yet to comprehend. Once again Martin felt the desire to stay by Danny's side and run interference for the hurdles he had ahead of him, but he hadn't earned that place in Danny's life.
But he also understood Danny's frustration. "Look," he said quietly, "it'll be all right. Let me—sorry, okay, I'm going." As Martin was herded around the edge of the drape that enclosed Danny's bed, he managed one quick wave. The last thing he heard as he left the emergency room was Danny at his charming best, trying to sweet talk the nurse into letting him leave.
"Damn it." Martin said the words under his breath because he was too pissed off to say the words aloud. "I knew he was gonna pull this crap."
This time he had the cab drop him off directly across the street, not even noticing when it pulled away because he knew that Danny, despite all good common sense, had gone back to his office. The front door was propped open by the back tire of Danny's bike and there was light coming through, barely discernible in the growing twilight. It was all Martin could see because he'd made sure that the windows had been adequately boarded before heading back to his own place for some much needed rest. When he awoke and realized he hadn't heard from Danny, he wasn't worried—he was furious. He'd thrown himself into the shower and bolted down something to eat before leaving Queens, forgetting the computer files and not even attempting to reach Danny's cell phone.
Why was he even bothering? He knew why, because Danny was Danny and even though Martin loved the crazy son of a bitch, it didn't lessen the aggravation and the worry. He dodged traffic to cross the street, pausing long enough to rein in his temper before stepping over the threshold of Danny's office.
He figured Danny had been there for a couple of hours but the place was hardly improved. The chairs near the front window had been uprighted and placed in a circle as if waiting for clients who would probably rather not sit in what was left of them. Martin had packed up anything that looked important and hauled it to the storage locker and left the debris behind, rehearsing his request for time off so he could give Danny a hand. With the squad on standby, he'd figured he'd have plenty of time to help Danny get back on his feet, once he'd recovered from the whack on his head.
Apparently Danny couldn't wait. Brushing aside the long strands of crime scene tape that had been cut from the door frame, Martin spied Danny in the back of the office, slowly pushing a broom, weariness in every flex of his shoulders. He'd changed into a rumpled, button-down striped shirt, worn untucked over a pair of dark jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Martin's irritation slipped away as he watched Danny pause to lean against the broom handle and run his fingers through hair already standing up in spikes. The lamp nearest the back brick wall had escaped destruction, lending just enough light to soften all the newly sharp edges but doing nothing to make the place look habitable.
"Did they actually release you or are you AMA?" Martin called out softly, unprepared for the jolt that shot through Danny as he whirled around, almost overbalancing. He clutched at the broom and eyed Martin warily.
"What are you doing here?"
Martin shrugged, uncomfortable with the unenthusiastic greeting he was getting.
"I didn't hear from you, so I figured you'd be here."
"And the AMA thing? What did you mean by that?"
"Nothing, man, it was a joke. Though you have to admit they probably didn't mean this when they told you to rest." Martin grinned at him but got nothing in return. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled further into the space, stepping around piles neat piles of swept up debris. "Coming back to the scene of your attempted murder isn't too bright, either."
Danny shook his head. "You were right about Mrs. Diavolo," he replied, his tone still unwelcoming. "Turns out the kid had been bragging about offing a lawyer and as soon as she heard that she called the cops. They arrested him about two hours ago, while he was sharing a Big Mac with his new girlfriend."
"Score one for Mrs. Diavolo, then." Martin indicated the room with a wave of his hand. "What can I do to help?"
Danny turned his back to Martin and resumed sweeping. "Nothing. I got everything under control."
It was obviously untrue but what alarmed Martin was Danny's change in attitude. Less than twenty-four hours ago they'd been working side by side, sometimes talking, mostly silent, the companionship real and substantial. Now Danny was treating him like an intruder and as Martin studied the stiffly straight back, he experienced a sharp quiver of unease. Wanting to defuse the situation, he saw a dust pan on the floor and picked it up, stepping around the end of the desk until he was in front of Danny. He was about to kneel down and position the dust pan but instead Danny grabbed it and flung it aside. When Martin took a step back in surprise, Danny followed until their bodies nearly touched.
"I told you I don't need your help." Danny's tone was firm, almost aggressive, and the anger Martin had been trying to avoid flared inside him.
"What is your problem?" He stabbed at Danny's chest with two fingers. "They're a lot places I'd rather be right now than in this sweat box sweeping up mouse droppings and pencil shavings, but I figured you'd need a hand."
Danny let the broom fall and swatted Martin's hand away. He stepped closer into Martin's space until their chests brushed together, tilting his head and giving Martin an unfriendly smile.
"No one asked you to come here tonight. So why don't you run off to that other place you'd rather be and tell him that you've done your duty as poor Danny's Taylor's only fucking friend."
Martin stared at Danny, his stomach churning. "Is that what this is about? Jesus Christ, you're the last person I'd ever think of as a bigot. What, did you run into Sam the hospital? I bet she couldn't wait to tell you that bit of news. Does it make your skin crawl, knowing I was sitting here next to you last night?"
He placed his hands on Danny's chest to push him away but Danny flung up his forearms and fended him off. "No, Sam didn't tell me, I already knew, and that's not what I meant. You want to believe that, don't you—that I don't want you here because I found out you were gay or bi or whatever. Typical, Martin, you'd never figure it out that just the goddamn opposite was true."
Danny was as angry as Martin had ever seen him, his slitted eyes glittering as he waited for Martin's reply. But Martin had none—the implication of Danny's words had registered immediately, robbing him of his own fury and setting him adrift in a sea of confusion. Apparently satisfied that he'd gotten the last word, Danny lowered his chin and started to back off. Acting on the memory of his own pain reflected in Danny's eyes at the hospital, Martin grabbed at Danny's shirt to tug him closer. He knew he had to say or do something to break through the wall Danny was determined to keep between them.
Caught off guard, Danny stumbled toward him, swaying enough that Martin needed to clutch at Danny's hip to steady him. Danny's hands landed on the balls of his shoulders where they gripped with unnecessary force. It was a caricature of an embrace, yet Martin's body betrayed its thrill to have Danny so close. Heat radiated from Danny's body, the stubble on his cheek in contrast to the finely grained skin beneath it. Martin wanted to lean into that heat, to discover the texture of Danny's skin and the taste of his sweat, to feel the fury-stiff planes of Danny's body soften against his.
They were both breathing heavily, staring at each other in misguided rage that faded as other emotions, equally as strong, replaced it. Martin still didn't know why Danny had been so pissed off at him when he'd arrived but he understood the underlying need to push away, to deny wanting something you know you can't have. He also understood pride, and pushing Danny too far wouldn't do either of them any good.
Maybe it was a battle best left for another day
"I'm sorry," Martin whispered, not knowing what else to say. He dropped his hands and looked at a point above Danny's shoulder. "I guess this has all been a mistake. I'd better go."
"No."
Danny didn't move except to tighten his grip on Martin's shoulders. Martin forced his eyes back to Danny's face, confused by what he saw there.
"Danny, I—"
"Shut up, Martin. Just shut up."
Without warning, Martin was pushed backward until his back hit the wall with a dull thud. Now it was his turn to brace himself, clenching fistfuls of the front of Danny's shirt.
"Listen to me, Martin Fitzgerald," Danny ground out between clenched teeth. "I had a lot of time to think about you while I was sitting in that damn hospital and you know what I realized?"
Martin's voice turned hoarse as Danny insinuated a knee between his thighs. "No, what?"
"This."
Danny's mouth came crashing down on his. The force of the contact would have bounced Martin's head against the wall but Danny's hands were there, threading his fingers through his hair and holding him still. Shock held Martin momentarily still, then he was gathering Danny to him, slanting his mouth to get closer.
The kiss was desperate, bruising, both of them trying to communicate through the rough touch of their bodies. Martin released Danny's shirt and ran his hands downward, digging under its hem and the tee shirt beneath it so he could slide his hands across the warm skin of Danny's waist. Danny continued to ravage Martin's lips, forcing his tongue inside with wide, demanding sweeps that weakened Martin's knees and sent sharp-edged desire tumbling through him. As Danny crowded into him, Martin growled and reversed the kiss, his own tongue eagerly accepted into the moist heat of Danny's mouth.
Martin's senses began to fog as his body responded to the hard length of Danny pressing him into the wall. His world was reduced to the contact of lips and hands and thighs and he was so submerged in the breathless pleasure it was giving him that at first he didn't notice the kiss was gentling, and that Danny's long fingers were cupping his face, his thumbs tracing lightly across Martin's cheekbones.
The shift was Martin's undoing—anger he understood, but tenderness was what he craved, and as the last kiss faded until their lips parted, Martin opened his eyes to a new and dangerous world, a world he could barely see for the bitter sheen that clung to the lower line of his eyelashes. This was what he wanted, to give and receive, but there had been no words of hope between them, only anger and misunderstanding.
His hand trembled as he smoothed it over Danny's hair, carefully pushing Danny back with the movement. Danny's eyes were shadowed, downcast, and Martin immediately sensed his withdrawal. The hands that only seconds before had been caressing Martin's face fell away as Danny stepped backward and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You need to leave."
Martin closed his eyes, saddened by the lack of surprise he felt at Danny's harshly whispered words. He let his head fall back against the brick wall, swallowing hard, searching for some way to reach Danny, to make him face what they now knew was between them. But as he reopened his eyes, he saw that Danny had turned away and was bending down to retrieve the broom.
"Will you listen to me for a sec? Danny? Come on, just give me—"
"Give you what?" Danny's anger was back, evident in the snarling tone and the white-knuckled grip on the broom. "Time? How much time do you need to realize that you can't give me what I want? What I've always wanted? How much time does it take for you to see that being near you is killing me!" He turned away. "I don't want your friendship, Martin. It's not enough. Get out."
Martin pushed away from the wall and grabbed Danny's arm.
"I'm not leaving until you hear me out. You're wrong—"
"Danny? You in here? Madre de Dios, what happened? Are you okay?"
Both men turned at the sound of a female voice. Martin recognized Danny's sister-in-law Sylvia as she stepped into the office with a look of horror on her face. He released Danny's arm as his heart sank, knowing that his small window of opportunity had just slammed shut.
"It's okay. Everything's fine." Danny moved to Sylvia's side, hands outstretched for the paper bag she was carrying. "That smells great—what is it?"
"Carnitas." She gave Martin a look of apology. "I didn't bring enough for three, though. I can go back—"
"No, thanks, I was just leaving." Martin walked to the door, pausing to give Sylvia a smile. "Congratulations. I understand you and Danny's brother recently got married."
She returned his smile with a shy one of her own as she nervously twisted the slim band of gold on her finger. "Thank you. You're Martin, right? Danny's friend from his old job?"
"Right." Martin glanced at Danny, who looked away as soon as their eyes met. "Nice to see you again. Hey, Danny—I'll, um, I'll call you later, okay?"
Danny shrugged. "Sure, man. Sounds good."
It was dismissal and rejection paved over by social niceties, and Martin knew the battle was lost. He left determined not to lose the war.
Danny kicked the door of his apartment closed as he juggled an armful of files with three bags of take-out food. He dumped the files on the couch and staggered into his kitchen, where he quickly dished out his dinner and grabbed a bottle of water. As he settled into his couch, plate on the table in front of him, he began to sort through the files. It was eleven o'clock at night and he knew it would be another three hours before he'd see his bed.
He didn't mind; it kept him busy and more importantly, it kept him from thinking about Martin and their last meeting. Every time he recalled it, Danny felt empty inside, wishing he could unsay and undo so many things. On the top of that list was kissing Martin—if he could take that back, erase it like it never happened, then maybe he could still call Martin his friend, because now he knew that friendship with Martin was better than nothing at all, and right now he knew that's all he deserved. Nothing.
Then his memory would travel back to the kiss, to the feel of Martin's muscles bunching beneath his hands, his sweet-spicy taste, his scent of clean skin and sweat, and Danny would swear that he couldn't live with anything less. Longing had him reaching for the phone several times a day with half-formed apologies; pride had him denying himself the one thing he wanted more than anything. But in seven days, the only thing he'd heard from Martin hadn't been words at all, only a FedExed package with the files Martin had salvaged from the two computers and the tee shirt he'd loaned Martin, freshly laundered. There had been no note, no instructions, nothing on which Danny could pin a solitary hope of saving the only thing that mattered in his life beside his family and practicing law.
The second time he dropped a forkful of sweet and sour pork on to a deposition, he decided to set work aside and concentrate on his dinner. He found the remote and turned on the TV, idly flipping through channels just in case there was something interesting before he switched to ESPN for the baseball scores. He hit on a local news channel that was just coming back from commercial so he paused when he saw the breaking news banner over the head of the news anchor.
"Recapping our top news story, FBI agents are on the scene of a hostage situation in Soho right now. Sources tell Eyewitness News that the man barricaded inside his apartment has been listed as missing for the past six days, prompting an FBI investigation. Unconfirmed reports state the man is a former employee of New York's Department of Transportation but was recently fired from his position for reasons yet to be disclosed. It is not known at this time who the hostages are or how many the suspect has inside the apartment with him."
Dinner forgotten, Danny watched in horrified fascination as the live feed from the news helicopter reflected a scene he knew all too well. He picked out four different groups of law enforcement personnel gathered in knots at various locations around a block of brownstone apartments but in the flashing of blue and red lights, he also recognized several FBI-issued sedans. He'd managed to suppress how much he missed his team because he'd been so busy with his new responsibilities, but watching the drama unfold on the screen in front of him brought it all forward. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he watched a sudden flurry of activity, and when he saw the bright spark of muzzle flashes, his heart leapt into his throat. The helicopter camera tried to follow the action as the voice of the on-scene reporter grew shrill with excitement.
There was a lot of confusion at the scene from then on, so Danny began flipping from channel to channel in search of better coverage. He had no idea if any of his former colleagues were involved in the situation, but the chance that they might be kept him glued to the television. Ten minutes later, he heard the words that had him reaching for his cell phone.
First he tried Vivian and when she didn't answer, his palms began to sweat. He left a message and moved on to Samantha, where he only got voice mail again. The odds of both of them being unavailable weren't long, but even if they were still on stand-down, they would've answered. He could get in trouble and they might be been pissed off, but he could endure that and hope they'd understand. He took a deep breath and pressed Martin's speed dial number, praying that Martin would pick up just so Danny would know they were all okay.
No one answered.
Next he called the dispatch desk at FBI headquarters, hoping he'd get someone he knew. He was in luck when an old friend answered and told him that Jack's team had been brought back and were on scene but beyond that, he had no other information that he could share.
Danny thanked him and rose to his feet, pacing across his living room. In his civilian status he'd never be allowed near the area but he knew ways around that. He also knew how inaccurate media coverage was during a crisis, so he had good reason to discount their announcement that there were officers down at the scene. He was torn by the need to be near his friends and the bald truth that he no longer belonged there.
He was yanking on his running shoes half an hour later when his phone rang. Lunging across the couch, he snagged it and flipped it open, relieved and disappointed that the caller was Vivian.
"Viv! You okay? Everyone okay?" There was a lot of noise and interference and Danny stuck one finger in his free ear as if it would help.
"Yeah, we're fine, everyone's fine. Listen, I can't talk, we've got a debriefing, but I knew you were worried, okay? I'll call you later."
"Viv—" The connection died in his ear and he closed the phone, lightly bouncing it against his forehead as he contemplated what to do next. His stomach muscles were wobbly with relief even as part of him realized that he couldn't give in to the fear that people he cared about were constantly going to be in harm's way. Sam, Martin, and now Jack—they'd all been shot in the line of duty, each one of them lucky to have survived. They could say it was the cost of doing the job, but for Danny it was the cost of caring that was hard to bear. He'd watched Sam struggle after she'd taken a bullet in her leg and although the odds of Jack walking again were getting better every day, it was all but certain that regaining his position as head of the FBI team he loved was a long way off.
And Martin. The first few hours after the ambush had only one meaning for Danny—terror, pure and unforgettable. He couldn't remember getting Martin out of the car—all he recalled was the sheen of blood that coated the street. He didn't remember the ride to the hospital but he'd never forgotten the icy chill in Martin's fingers as he chafed them lightly between his own, muttering half-remembered prayers and broken words of encouragement. Someone told him later that he'd nearly snapped the wrist of the doctor who'd attended him in the ER, but all he'd seen was Martin's blood-soaked body as it was carted off to surgery.
That's what he was experiencing now—an echo of the panic from that night and to a lesser degree, the distress of Sam's shooting. In its wake came the cold certainty that while he could learn to live with the danger that his friends faced, and learn to deal with the guilt that he wasn't ever going to be there for them again, he had to talk to Martin. Whatever Martin offered, Danny would take.
Except he wondered if it was too late. There'd been hurt and confusion in Martin's eyes when Danny had pushed him away in a useless attempt to protect himself; his disillusionment with Danny was evident in the fact that despite Martin's promise, he hadn't called.
It was clearly Danny's move.
At two o'clock in the morning, Danny turned off the muted television and once again reached for the phone.
The pre-dawn air was soft against Danny's skin, cooling his cheeks and playing with the hair at his temples. Within hours the summer heat would once more weigh down the city, but at 5:00 a.m. he imagined he could taste a touch of autumn in the breeze.
He'd already paced the length of the tree-lined pedestrian boulevard that bisected his favorite local park, his restless feet kicking at pebbles and stray leaves as his eyes scanned both ends of the path. The park wasn't deserted—there were dog walkers and runners everywhere—but everyone seemed content to keep apart, to have wide spaces around them. When the joggers passed Danny on the path, they gave him a nod and a wide berth, never missing a beat. The traffic sounds were muted too, giving the birds a chance to sing before the cacophony of city life drowned them out.
Martin had instantly agreed to meet Danny, asking only for enough time to shower and change at the office since he didn't want to head all the way into Queens. Danny had offered to meet him anywhere, and it had been Martin who'd suggested the park that held a significant place in their relationship. It was there that they'd gone after Martin's first NA meeting, walking up and down the ice-slick paths, Martin plowing ahead with his knit-capped head down and fists in his pockets, Danny keeping pace and staying quiet. They'd walked until Martin was stumbling with exhaustion, then Danny had tossed him in a cab and sent him home. Martin hadn't needed words then to know how Danny felt; it was now a part of the fabric of their friendship, a silent, tragic bond that Danny longed to replace with something much more worthy.
He turned to begin his second circuit of the path and reminded himself that Martin would call if he couldn't make it. He'd have gone at least twenty-four hours without sleep at this point, with a major FBI investigation thrown in that had only ended a few hours earlier. Danny hadn't slept either; he'd spent the intervening hours working, re-energized by the sound of wry amusement in Martin's voice when he'd given Danny grief about calling in the middle of a firefight. Danny had answered with some glib remark, then offered to meet Martin after he'd had a chance to get some sleep. Martin had declined, saying that he had enough adrenaline in his bloodstream to keep him going until lunch time. An exaggeration, but Danny heard the underlying message—Martin needed to hear what Danny had to say.
Halfway along the path, Danny bent down to retie his shoelace. When he stood up, Martin was coming toward him, dressed in dark grey sweats and carrying two Starbucks cups. He was close enough for Danny to see how pale Martin was beneath a light dusting of beard, but his smile was genuine as he handed over one of the cups.
"Still a shot in the dark, right?"
Danny took the cup and cracked off the lid, inhaling the steaming aroma with a beatific expression. "These days it's a double shot, now that I'm self-employed. Unlike you latte-sipping yuppies, you understand."
Martin grinned and took a sip of his own drink. "Yeah, two shots of espresso in a cup of brew sounds like a working man's drink to me."
"Damn straight."
Martin twirled a finger toward the back of his own neck. "How's the head?"
"Thick," Danny replied with an exaggerated wince.
"I think that's my line. Speaking of that, you wanna tell me why you were so pissed off at me the other night?
"Not really, but I think I have to anyway." He nodded toward a nearby bench and they sat down, drinking quietly for a few minutes, both of them looking everywhere except at each other. First Martin and then Danny leaned forward, balancing elbows on knees, heads bowed, until Martin finally cleared his throat.
"Okay, this is ridiculous. We gonna talk or watch the grass grow?"
Danny smiled down at the ground. He was still surprised that Martin had agreed to meet him at all after the way they'd parted. No, not quite true—after the way Danny had punished Martin with a kiss that had conveyed everything Danny felt and nothing that he wanted.
May as well get right to the point, he thought, amusement tinged with fear at what he was about to do. Eyes firmly on the mud crusting the edge of his Nikes, Danny spoke in a carefully playful tone.
"Okay, Martin, how's this. I'm sorry I acted like an idiot and if we can get past that, then I want to kiss you again. I want to kiss you long and hard and as often as possible. What do you think?"
He didn't dare turn his head to see Martin's reaction, even though his entire body was attuned to every breath of the man beside him. A small silence grew in which Danny felt his heart begin to crumple as surely as the empty paper cup he was clutching in his hand.
"I—" Martin cleared his throat again. "I think that's a hell of an idea. In fact, I fully endorse that idea." Martin slid his foot over and nudged Danny's shoe. "Not too sure about your choice of venue, though."
Danny breathed out hard, a tide of sweet relief rising inside him. He nodded in agreement, finally looking over at Martin and straight into tired blue eyes that still managed to glow brightly enough to tell Danny everything he needed to know.
"You got a better idea?" He was surprised he could get the words out past the lump in his throat.
Martin's cheek creased in amusement, flashing the shallow dimple that Danny loved. "Always. But," he continued regretfully, "despite that last cup of coffee, I'm dead on my feet. And I have to head back to the office in a couple of hours."
He'd known it was coming, but disappointed crashed through Danny anyway. "Yeah, I figured. Maybe now wasn't the best time to do this."
Martin's hand landed on his shoulder. "Sure it was." His hand moved upward, briefly tugging on Danny's earlobe. He took Danny's empty coffee cup and got to his feet, tossing it with his own into the trash bin next to the bench. Hands shoved in his pockets, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet next to Danny, both of them facing the path again. "I've, uh, got something I need to do this afternoon, then I was going to see Jack. Think you can meet me there? Then maybe we can grab some dinner or something."
Danny tried not to read anything into Martin's first statement. He stood up and stretched, letting the movement take him into Martin's space to gently shove him off balance. "I think I can do that," said he said, laughing when Martin bumped him back. "Might even be some carnitas in it for you."
"Yeah, well, I was hoping for a little more than that, but damn, that stuff really did smell good." Martin leaned forward until Danny thought he was going to kiss him, despite the public locale. He looked pointedly at Danny's mouth before inclining his head until his lips were next to Danny's ear. "You're not off the hook on the talking thing, though."
Then Martin was gone, loping easily down the path toward the park entrance. Danny watched him until he disappeared, knowing he had a goofy grin on his face and not giving a damn.
"That's something I never expected to see again." Jack growled at them from his hospital bed as Danny and Martin entered his room. They looked at each other and then back at Jack, who scowled and shook his head. "The two of you together again, looking like you always did. Like you were sharing a joke and no one else knew the punchline. Always bugged the crap out of me."
Martin shared another glance with Danny, uncomfortable yet oddly pleased by Jack's assessment. One of the things he loved about Danny was the easy way they could talk to each other; sometimes all they'd need was brief eye contact to understand what the other was thinking. To have someone else pick up on that was a little unnerving.
Danny seemed unfazed. He set aside the magazines and newspapers he'd brought and pulled up one of the visitor chairs. "C'mon, Jack, half the things I did bugged you on a daily basis."
"Yeah, that's true." Jack squinted at him. "What happened to your head?"
Martin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. Jack had honed in on the small patch of shaved hair on the back of Danny's head and known immediately what it signified. As he listened to Danny tell a highly entertaining version of what happened that night, Martin's mind wandered back over the past few hours, a small frame of time that had changed his life.
He'd done what he told Danny he'd do—gone home, grabbed a couple of hours sleep and then gone back to the office to tie up some loose ends. The satisfactory conclusion of the missing DOT worker case meant that he and the rest of the squad were back on standby until someone decided what to do with Jack's team. With work cleared up, he was free to make a phone call that he dreaded, yet knew was inescapable.
He couldn't do it over the phone, so he'd asked Scott to meet him at a small restaurant they'd gone to before. Scott had sounded happy that Martin had called him and had walked into the restaurant with a big smile on his face. They'd ordered coffee, Scott's smile fading under the weight of Martin's serious gaze.
"What's up?" he'd asked, his own eyes now fixed on the spoon in his coffee mug.
"Scottie, this is really hard, but I can't see you anymore."
Scott had nodded, his shoulders slumping. Martin fiddled with his napkin, wishing the conversation was over but more importantly, wishing he didn't have to cause pain to someone he'd come to care about. Scotty wasn't Danny, never could be, but Martin hated the idea of hurting this kind, fun-loving man who'd been nothing but good to him.
"Can I ask why?" Scott finally looked at him, almond-shaped brown eyes sad and resigned.
"Remember me telling you about a guy I used to work with, the one who quit to become a lawyer?" Martin reached across the table and brushed his knuckles along the back of Scott's hand. "He's, uh, back in my life."
"Just my luck." Scotty had smiled at him then, a ragged, self-deprecating effort that cut Martin to the quick. "Is he back so far that you and I can't stay friends?"
"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. Just give me a little time, okay?"
"Sure." Scott got to his feet and pulled a couple of dollars out of his pocket, tossing them on the table. Martin also rose and held out his hand. Scott took it and they shook, but when Martin started to pull away, Scott retained his hand.
"You're a sweetheart, Marty," he said. "This guy better be good to you."
Martin smiled. "He is."
At the hospital, Danny was winding down his story to an openly skeptical Jack, who looked over at Martin for confirmation.
"That how it went down?" he asked.
Martin shrugged. "Don't remember. I was hiding under the desk."
"Right." The single syllable was drawn out, giving an exact idea of Jack's opinion. "So what happened with the transportation worker?"
Now it was Martin's turn to tell the story, which felt like every other time he'd reported to Jack. For all his gruffness and less than excellent people skills, Martin had always respected the qualities Jack possessed that made him a great agent, an opinion he once threw in his father's face and still believed. Jack listened intently, peering at Martin over his half-moon reading glasses, asking an occasional question even when a nurse came in to check his vitals. Despite the severity of his wounds, Jack looked good and apparently wasn't content to let the world pass him by. He was surrounded by books and papers, cards, flowers, and pictures drawn by his kids. His bed was elevated enough for him to read comfortably or, in the case of Danny and Martin, to interrogate his visitors.
After Martin's account of the incident, Jack pinned them both with a hard look. "So, are you two together or what?"
Martin felt his face turn red and looked over at Danny, who also had a telling blush washing across his cheeks.
"Jeez, Jack," Martin muttered. The straightforward question had been delivered without any apparent judgment attached to it, making Martin reevaluate what he knew about Jack. While he'd never describe Jack as prejudiced, he wasn't exactly politically correct, either. Maybe his ready acceptance of the situation had more to do with the real affection that Jack hid beneath a crusty surface; regardless, he was staring at the two of them like they were a couple of naughty kids called on the carpet for misbehaving.
"Jesus, never mind," Jack said with a wave of his hand. "Remind me to play poker with you two some day. I'll make a fortune. Listen, Martin, I may as well tell you—I think they're going to turn the squad over to Viv."
Martin nodded. "Fine with me. Until you get back, of course."
But Jack was shaking his head. "Not this time. Viv's not gonna get screwed over twice on my account."
"Yeah, what about you?" Danny asked Jack, his tone mildly inquisitive. "How long you gonna be out?"
"Damn doctors won't tell me for sure." Jack sighed and removed his glasses. "At the very least I have months of therapy ahead of me before I can even think of going back to the office, let alone into the field."
"But you will walk again, right?"
Jack's mouth twisted into one of his rough smiles. "Good enough to kick you in the ass if you don't become the best damn lawyer in New York."
"Gee, thanks, Jack. No pressure there."
Martin was still grinning at the conversation when a movement through the glass wall caught his eye. "Uh, Jack. You've got more company."
A knock on the open door frame heralded Vivian and Sam's arrival. There was a flurry of activity as both women hugged Danny and unloaded more presents for the invalid. Martin tried to stay out of the way but the room was too small, so he caught Danny's eye and started edging toward the door. He found his exit blocked by Sam, who tilted her head toward the corridor as she looked at him, one eyebrow raised. After glancing back to see that the others were deep in conversation, he followed her into the hallway where she led him to a pair of chairs, one of which held Danny's helmet. Martin placed it beneath his chair and they sat down.
"It's nice to see you and Danny together," Sam began. She was wearing one of those expressions that Martin had never been able to decipher; a hint of softness around her mouth, beautiful eyes wide with deceptive innocence. But Martin knew that beneath all that heartbreaking vulnerability was a deep vein of insecurity that she could tap into and wield like a weapon. He'd learned almost too late to distrust the low voice and the caring demeanor, knowing they could mask heartfelt concern or the presence of an emotional mine field. Even her visits in the hospital after his shooting had been difficult; while he truly believed she thought she was helping just by being there, it had been the exact opposite, because the only person he'd really wanted at his side never came.
Now he shrugged, his eyes tracking a nurse and doctor walking past them, deep in conversation. "He needed some help with the numbers."
"Guess Seattle was good for something." Her tone was teasing, yet she managed to make it sound like that part of his life had been wasted.
"Yeah." Danny's laughter could be heard in Jack's room and Martin wanted this conversation to be over. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
"Yes." Sam took a deep breath and looked down at her hands where they rested lightly on her knees. "I think Danny cares about you a lot."
The statement sounded like a platitude and Martin's attention was already waning. "I appreciate that, but—"
"Don't hurt him."
The breathy words caught him like a blow to the stomach. He stared at Sam, trying to grasp the significance of what she was implying. When he couldn't find anything to say in reply, she pushed on.
"It's just that, I know you're involved with someone else and I'd hate for Danny to, you know, get his hopes up."
The muscles in Martin's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth against harsh words that struggled to escape. To have Sam lecture him on how to treat Danny when the feelings between the two men were still so fragile felt like a violation. He wanted to give Sam the benefit of the doubt because he'd once cared so deeply for her, but it was getting more difficult as she reached toward him, long fingers wrapping around his hand with a touch that was meant to be tender but only succeeded in making him feel trapped.
"I know this sounds odd, coming from me," she continued softly, "but maybe I know better than anyone how hard it is to live up to your expectations. You have these preconceptions about people, and you...you make people want to change, to fit those expectations." She lifted one shoulder and tossed her ponytail, her smile turning wistful. "It's hard, you know? And Danny's always worn his heart on his sleeve, whereas you—maybe you're more like your father than you realize."
Martin made an effort to remain calm, pulling in a deep breath before answering. "Maybe you should leave my father out of this."
Her eyes dropped. "Okay, you're right. That was unfair. I'm sorry."
It was just becoming apparent to Martin that Sam must've known something about Danny that made this difficult conversation possible. She'd obviously struggled with Martin's involvement with a man, but Martin had understood that and had withstood her silent hostility because he'd sympathized with her confusion. That Danny seemed similarly inclined didn't seem to shock her at all, leading Martin to believe that he'd been almost unforgivably blind for the past three years. Even more unsettling was Sam's perception of the change in his relationship with Danny; she'd picked up on it quickly and he figured some of that could be attributed to the guesswork of a well-trained agent. Jack had certainly caught on quickly but had only seemed impatient that it'd taken them so long.
Sam was another matter. Martin had once teased Sam about profiling him; it'd intrigued him at the time, but now he found it painfully intrusive.
"Make your point, Sam."
The clipped tone induced Sam to remove her fingers. She folded her hands in her lap in an oddly prim gesture, but Martin could read the annoyance in the simple move.
"Be sure, Martin. Be sure this is what you want. I don't want to see either of you hurt, but Danny—"
"Danny what?"
Neither of them had noticed Danny strolling toward them, the look on his face one that Martin knew well. He'd seen it many times in the interrogation room, when Danny's mouth would take on that little quirk that looked like amusement but instead hid a rising temper. It was obvious that Danny had heard at least some of their conversation and wasn't happy about it; whether he was upset with Sam or Martin—or both of them—remained to be seen.
"Danny what?" he repeated. His usually warm brown eyes were flat as he gazed down on Sam, whose fingers began to fret the edge of her jacket.
"I was just telling Martin how good it was to see you two together again," she said. She gave him a full-wattage smile that wasn't returned. "Just like old times."
"Not exactly," Danny replied affably. He gave Martin's foot a light tap to get it out of the way before reaching beneath the chair for his helmet. As he straightened he looked down on Martin with a half grin that, to Martin's relief, seemed sincere.
"Martin, I think Jack wanted to talk to you before we go. I'll keep Sam company until you're ready."
Martin got to his feet, holding Danny's gaze with a questioning look of his own. Danny responded with the barest hint of a wink that heartened Martin considerably. He gave Sam a see-you-later nod as she rose from her chair and he returned to Jack's room, wryly amused that Jack had no specific purpose in talking to him. He positioned himself near the end of the bed and carried on a casual conversation with Jack and Viv, all the while keeping an eye on Danny and Sam through the room's glass wall.
It wasn't easy; the dark head bent so close to the blond, the quiet intensity of Danny's expression and the small flutter of Sam's fingers before she clasped her hands together again—it was telling him a story but he didn't recognize the plot. He recalled all the times Danny had teased him about Sam, about settling down into domestic bliss and the two of them having little Agent Fitzgeralds running around in no time. Then when things between them had started going south, Danny had been a calm port in Sam's dramatic storms, offering Martin refuge when Sam had sniped at him over every little thing. It had given them a chance to forge a deeper friendship just in time to deal with Danny's brother, and maybe it would have gone further once Sam was finally out of the picture. Little did Martin know he had a year of hell ahead of him and yet Danny had always been there. Sometimes supportive, other times so coldly furious that Martin thought he'd never see Danny smile again, but there.
The conversation seemed to be coming to an end. Danny was leaning toward Sam, practically speaking in her ear, and Sam was responding with a jerky nod. He watched as Sam managed a smile that looked shaky with laughter and tears before she reached for Danny, giving him a hug only slightly hindered by the motorcycle helmet. Then Danny said something to her that really made her laugh, and Martin could feel the tension ebb from his own shoulders.
Ten minutes later, Martin was staring at Danny's bike, one eyebrow cocked above the edge of his sunglasses.
"I'm supposed to ride on the back of that thing?"
Danny tossed him the spare helmet. "'That thing' is a BMW R 1200 ST, my friend. And, yes, you get on the back and then hold on for dear life."
"Hold on to what?" Martin eyed him suspiciously, rolling his eyes when he was answered with an unrepentant grin.
"Anything you want to." Danny pulled on a pair of leather gloves. "So what did Sam want to discuss with you?"
Martin grinned at him. "She told me not to hurt you."
"Yeah?" Danny gave him an appraising look. "Were you planning on it?"
With a derisive snort, Martin shook his head. "Hardly. Seems she thinks I'm difficult to get along with."
"You are," Danny said with a wink, "but I told Sam that was just the way I liked you."
"Yeah? What else did you say to her?"
"Tell you some other time." Martin started to protest, but Danny was already strapping his helmet on. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
Martin had been on motorcycles before, mostly dirt bikes when he was a kid, but they were nothing compared to the finely-tuned power that purred between his knees. Even in the congested streets of the Bronx, the machine moved like a wild animal, kept tame only by Danny's subtle, firm touches. The fast-moving air plucked at Martin's denim jacket and plastered his jeans to his calves, but he was barely aware of anything beyond the bone-deep vibration of the bike and the feel of Danny's hips beneath his palms. He wasn't paying attention to where Danny was taking them; they hadn't discussed a destination at the hospital. But Danny obviously had some place in mind and Martin was happy to let him get them there, content to for once just to live in the moment. It wasn't until they pulled up in front of Danny's apartment building that he admitted that this was where he'd been hoping they'd end up all along.
But as they rode the elevator to Danny's floor, Martin began to feel uneasy. Danny was whistling softly beneath his breath, rocking on his toes and sending teasing glances Martin's way, telegraphing that he was perfectly aware of—and greatly amused by—Martin's sudden case of nerves. As Danny strode ahead of him down the corridor toward his door, the growing flutter in Martin's stomach made it difficult for him to relax and his pace began to slow.
Danny had disappeared by the time Martin crossed the threshold. He set his helmet next to Danny's on a small table and looked around, liking the thrown-together, comfortable surroundings of Danny's living room. He thrust his hands in his pockets and waited near the couch, uneasiness giving way to full-out anxiety.
"Where'd you go, man?" he said, loudly enough to encompass an obviously small apartment.
"Hang on," was Danny's reply, coming from what Martin considered to the bedroom. Too tense to wait, he followed the voice down a short hall, only to pause in the doorway of Danny's bedroom, lips parting on a silent sigh when he realized that beneath Danny's ever-present cocky attitude, in his way he was just as anxious as Martin.
The bedroom, in contrast the rest of Danny's apartment, was immaculate. The bureau and both nightstands were empty of clutter, each holding a scattering of small, unlit glass votives. The bed was made but Danny was fussing with the pillows, his back to Martin as he tugged a wrinkle from a dark blue pillowcase. As Martin watched Danny straightened up, only to lean over again to smooth out another tiny crease.
Martin was instantly disarmed by this side of Danny. His own doubts subsiding, he backed down the hall and resumed his position near the door, pinning a slightly annoyed expression to his face. A moment later Danny emerged from the bedroom, rubbing his hands together, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Are you hungry?" Danny asked as he started to pass by Martin.
"Yes." Martin grabbed Danny's arm and swung him around. Danny wasn't expecting it and that made the moment sweeter, as Martin placed his mouth against Danny's with a firm touch that removed the ever-present smirk and replaced it with lips that went soft with surprise. Martin pushed his advantage, sucking easily at Danny's upper lip as he slid his arms around Danny's waist to pull him close.
So different, this kiss, than their first attempt, the one that had been heated with anger, not passion. Danny was pliant, instantly welcoming, his long fingers once again cradling Martin's face as the kiss drifted into a bare touch of lip to lip. Martin turned his face slightly, letting his cheek rest against Danny's, feeling as comfortable in the circle of Danny's arms as he hoped Danny felt in return.
"So tell me," he whispered, "why where you such a jerk the other other night?"
Danny's body stiffened. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Apparently not."
Danny paused, long enough for Martin to think he wouldn't get an answer. "I guess I thought pushing you away was better than letting you get close again. I'd already done it once, I figured I could do it again."
The tense quality of Danny's voice caught Martin's attention. He tightened his arms until the embrace turned into something more meaningful than he'd intended, guessing that Danny was about to say something he didn't want to hear.
"Go on," Martin urged. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the faint rasp of Danny's cheek against his own.
A soft breath brushed his ear. "I quit the squad because of you."
Martin went rigid and tried to take a backward step; in anticipation, Danny wrapped both his arms around Martin's back, running soothing hands up and down his spine.
"Why?" Distracted, Martin bowed his head until it rested on Danny's shoulder. He hadn't expected anything like that and the confession fell like a blow he hadn't seen coming.
"Aw, don't you know?" Danny's voice was shaky, tenderly amused and warm. "I wanted you so much, Martin. I—I couldn't stand it anymore. I thought we had a shot after that thing with Raffy, but I was too slow, too scared. I couldn't find the right time."
"The time was always right," Martin protested, knowing it wasn't true. The earthy scent of Danny's leather jacket drifted across his senses and he breathed it in, letting it calm the jumble of feelings inside him as Danny's hand traveled up to the back of his head, caressing his neck through the collar of his shirt.
"God, I wish. I wish the timing had been right before we'd ever heard the name Paige Hobson." Danny's voice dropped to a hoarse rumble. "I wish I could've taken you home with me. Taken you home and loved you well again, so you wouldn't have needed anything else. I wish that son of a bitch hadn't whacked you on that rooftop and hurt you so bad you had to go through what you did. I wish I'd had the guts to help you instead of being so terrified you'd find out what a coward I am."
Martin slid his hands between them, pushing lightly at Danny's chest to break the embrace. Danny's confession had found its echo in Martin's own guilt, and he turned away from Danny's too discerning gaze.
"Coward, huh? Guess that makes two of us." Martin stared blindly at the far wall. "I seem to keep hurting people I care about because I don't have the guts to be honest with myself—or you. And now, finding out you left the squad because of me—God, Danny, I'm so sorry."
Danny's arms surrounded him from behind and he felt the touch of Danny's mouth against his ear. "It's okay. Passing the bar was something I'd wanted for a long time, even before I joined the FBI. Studying was something I did so I didn't have to think about you and Sam and then one day I realized I was ready."
"Ready for what?"
"Ready to move on with my life. Without you."
Martin's dry chuckle had no humor in it. "So you did, until I showed up on your door one night."
Danny's embrace tightened. "Never happened. I tried so damn hard, but I never let you go."
Martin folded his arms over Danny's and let his head fall back against Danny's shoulder. "Jesus, we've really managed to screw this up, haven't we."
"Maybe. But here's the thing, Martin. We can't go back and fix things, but we can go forward. Together, if that's what you want."
Martin turned in the circle of Danny's arms, cupping his hands around Danny's hips just below his belt. Danny's face was starkly beautiful in that moment, so full of cautious hope—and so easy to hurt. There was nothing held back in Danny's gaze, no curtain of self-protection drawn to dim the unmistakable shine of love that resided there. Humbled and exhilarated, Martin tested himself against the weight of that love and found he was ready to accept its responsibility with joy and a confidence he'd never felt with anyone else. He slid his hand over Danny's cheek as the specter of failure receded and an overwhelming sense of belonging began to fill his soul.
"If I want? Are you kidding me?" He let a slow smile build, infusing it with all the crazy, breathless tenderness he was feeling. "You know something? I didn't like you very much when I first got here."
"Yeah?" Danny slid one hand lower than the other, a brief caress across the pocket of his jeans that made Martin shiver. "Guess what—I didn't like you at all."
"Yeah, I got that loud and clear." They shared a smile, remembering the territorial animosity that had so quickly given way to mutual respect and a grudging friendship that had been so close into evolving into something more.
"And now?" Danny's head was tilted, his eyes slanting as they darkened beneath the veil of his lashes. It was a blatantly sensual look that broke over Martin like a warm wave, awakening in him an answering need that sent tremors through a body suddenly alive to every sense. He leaned forward, his eyes on Danny's mouth, his intention clear as he lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Now I'm thinking we wasted a hell of of a lot time."
Danny's voice was equally hushed. "Then let's start making up for it right now."
Their lips met, both of them seeking to reaffirm the need to begin anew. As the kiss deepened, Martin's memory floated back to all those times he'd leaned over Danny's shoulder at work, subconsciously soaking up Danny's nearness and chancing fleeting looks at the curve of his cheekbone or a bottom lip moistened in concentration.
All of that was a thin shadow of what he was experiencing now. Danny was clutching him as if he were afraid Martin would disappear, his mouth seeking out Martin's again and again with possessive kisses that rocked Martin back on his heels. He'd always suspected that Danny would be a passionate lover, as extravagant with his caresses as he was with his wardrobe, but Martin couldn't have imagined what it felt like to be the center of Danny Taylor's seductive whirlwind. A stroke of Danny's tongue beneath his ear teased a moan out of his throat; fingers slipping inside his jacket to sweep it off his shoulders had his stomach muscles contracting in anticipatory pleasure. When the softly fervent words want you were breathed against his ear, Martin's body reacted with an erotic pulse that jostled them both.
The world swirled around him in a kaleidoscopic blur as Danny danced him toward the couch. His own hands were fumbling with the buttons of Danny's shirt, his long-held desire to touch Danny's skin seemingly within his reach when the inexorably cheerful chime of a cell phone rent the air, drawing frustrated moans from both men. Martin knew it wasn't his and was reluctant to let Danny go, even as Danny was reaching in his pocket for the phone with one hand and trying to tug Martin's shirt out from his jeans with the other.
With a look that managed to convey equal parts rueful apology and thwarted desire, Danny flipped open the phone, groaning as he read the name displayed there. Martin rested his head briefly on Danny's shoulder but was captured by a long arm around his waist when he tried to move away.
"Mrs. Diavolo," Danny muttered in explanation. "I can let it go to voice mail—"
"No, go ahead." Martin slipped two finger between the two folds of Danny's opened shirt, trailing his fingertips along the cotton surface of Danny's tee shirt down to his belt buckle. "Better now than later, right?"
Danny nodded, his eyes gratifyingly glassy as he answered the phone. A conversation conducted in Spanish too rapid for Martin to follow ensued, but he caught the gist of it soon enough. The disappointment in Danny's face would have told the tale, even if Martin hadn't been able to discern the words "knife" and "arrest" from the portion of the conversation he understood.
Keeping keep his voice as neutral as possible, Martin disentangled them and watched as Danny closed the phone and tucked it away. "You have to go."
Danny scrubbed his hands over his face. "I don't know what to do. I want to stay here with you, but—"
Martin ran his hands up Danny's arms to his shoulders and gripped him tightly. "Hey, man, it's okay. I have a feeling this isn't the only time this is going to happen. To either of us." His mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Want to fill me in on what happened? It didn't sound too good."
Danny didn't answer at first, instead lifting his hand to press the back of his fingers to Martin's cheek. He stroked it lightly, his gaze filled with a regret Martin knew all too well. There'd been too many times to count when the job had disrupted an intimate moment; it was something he'd learned to live with and he knew Danny had, too.
But this time was the two of them and it was different, and it hurt like hell.
"Remember I told you they picked up the shooter with his new girlfriend at Mickey D's? Yeah, well, Mrs. Diavolo's pregnant daughter Rosalia didn't appreciate being two-timed with a manicurist from Jersey so she decided to make her kid's father pay attention."
"A little Old Testament retribution?"
"A little old fashioned justice with a brand new Ginsu knife fresh from her mama's QVC order."
"Ouch. Kid still intact? Or was it the manicurist?"
"My very own drive-by shooter is in one piece, more or less. Seems a finger went missing somewhere, but Mrs. Diavolo didn't seem too concerned." Danny didn't seem inclined to move, so Martin stepped forward to button his shirt.
"So where are you off to?" he asked, eyes intent on each fastening.
"Arraignment court." Danny covered Martin's busy hands with his own and waited until Martin looked up at him. "Will you wait for me?"
"Why don't you let me come along, let me see you in action?" Martin grinned at him, expecting and receiving a smirk in return.
"Could be a long night. You know how slow arraignment court can be."
"No where else I'd rather be," Martin assured him. "Well," he quickly amended, "that's not entirely true, but you get my drift."
Danny snatched Martin's jacket from he floor and gave it a ceremonious shake before handing it over for Martin to put on. As soon as Martin's arms were tangled in the sleeves Danny grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him hard, stealing Martin's breath with a promise whispered in swift Spanish before he was released. Five minutes later he was on the back of the BMW, this time with one hand pressed firmly to Danny's abdomen, Danny's back pressed against his chest.
If it wasn't exactly how he'd planned on spending the evening, it was a pretty good representation of how he hoped it would end.
Danny figured he'd been awake for at least an hour but had neither recollection nor care of the passing minutes. It was close to dawn and he'd had very little sleep, but if he stayed up until the sun brightened the horizon, he'd be content. The world around him was perfectly silent, the air warm and soft, redolent of sated bodies, fragrant oil and recently doused candles. Propped up against the headboard, his naked back supported by two pillows and his bare legs stretched out on top of the bed, he watched the progression of the stars through his bedroom window with idle interest. Once in a while he'd take a sip from the bottle of water he'd retrieved from the kitchen, his movements languorous, his breathing slow and measured. When the sky ceased to hold his attention, he would turn to look at the man beside him, sometimes allowing himself the luxury of sliding his fingers through hair still damp from an earlier shower.
Martin slept through every surreptitious caress, flat on his stomach with his head turned away, a slender, motionless figure bathed in cool blue moonlight from the curve of his hip to the top of his tousled head. The bites and bruises Danny had left were smudged and indistinct lavender shadows on skin too well-traveled to be flawless but still beautiful to Danny's serenely possessive gaze. A white sheet lay tangled around Martin's legs, completing the illusion of a figure carved in pale marble.
But Danny knew that cold was a word he'd never use to describe Martin Fitzgerald. Jesus God, how he knew.
A light docket at arraignment court had been a break Danny hadn't expected but didn't dare question. Rosalia Diavolo's hearing had been third on the schedule, which hadn't given him a lot of time to meet with his new client. Mrs. Diavolo had been more of a hindrance than a calming influence on her daughter until Martin, who'd stayed unobtrusively in the background, stepped forward and flashed his dimple before guiding her to a nearby bench. Even with his halting Spanish—or because of it—he'd charmed Mrs. Diavolo until she was tapping his knee with her purse and giving him advice on women, as he later related to Danny over dinner. At one point Martin had looked up over her head to catch Danny's eye, giving him a quick nod before turning his attention back to the woman at his side.
Danny hadn't thought he could fall any harder; he was wrong.
Rosalia was released without being required to post bail and Martin and Danny found themselves done far earlier than they'd imagined. They were both aware of the undercurrent that flowed between them with every look and touch, but they pretended to ignore it as they stopped for Italian food at a restaurant near the courthouse. Conversation was animated as they swapped stories of the past six months, their laughter sometimes self-conscious as they tried to ignore the heady mix of fear and desire that was drawing their bodies together, despite the raucous background of a busy restaurant and a too cheerful waitress who tried to talk them into dessert. They settled for coffee and let the moment drift into silence until Martin excused himself to use the men's room. When he returned, the bill had been paid and Danny was waiting by the BMW, Martin's helmet in his hand and his own already on.
Without another word between them, they got on the bike and Danny took them home.
Danny let his head fall back against the wall, his gaze rising to contemplate the shadows that filled the corners of the bedroom. He hadn't been entirely truthful with Martin when he'd said he hadn't liked him at all when he'd first arrived. The truth was he'd been prepared to deal with whoever Jack was bringing on board, even if he did have a sterling silver FBI pedigree in his back pocket. He'd been expecting a pasty-faced son of a bureaucrat who'd turn tail at the first sign of a fight, but one good look at Martin Fitzgerald and his heart had flipped over in his chest.
It hadn't been love, not then, and not for a long time. Always comfortable with his own easy tastes, Danny recognized attraction when he felt it but had the discipline to ignore it if he had to. But things changed when a competitive work relationship evolved into a serious friendship, until one night when Danny had let his imagination take him to a place he'd been careful to avoid. What made things worse was the realization that a fantasy that should have been all about innocent lust for a co-worker had turned into an affair of the heart, just in time to witness Sam finally succumb to Martin's romantic yearlong siege.
Martin stirred beside him but did not wake. One long arm stretched out, curving over his head to disappear beneath his pillow. The movement was caught in the moonbeams that etched his flexing muscles, briefly highlighting a small birthmark on his shoulder that Danny had found such delight in discovering earlier that night. He reached over and stroked it now, the barest touch of his knuckle drifting across the tiny discoloration.
He'd tried hard to give up the dream and had never quite been able to, not even when Martin and Sam had been happiest. The lust-driven fantasies would blindside him when he was tired but the ache of knowing someone else had Martin's attention had never faded. Then almost as quickly as it had begun the affair had soured, leaving Danny feeling guilty for being glad. But elation had turned into resignation once he'd convinced himself that Martin could never see him as anything other than a compadre, and so Danny had fled, trying to outrun his feelings and failing completely.
How could he have known? So much had been revealed to him since they'd arrived back at his apartment that his head was still spinning, his nocturnal vigilance a testament to the reality that Martin had surrendered not just his body to Danny that night, but his heart as well.
And that was why Danny was still awake.
Even now it was difficult to ignore the proximity of Martin's warmth, to hold back the desire to cradle those broad shoulders close to his chest and set his lips beneath the nascent curls of Martin's hairline. Not as a prelude to making love again; the need to be near had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the improbable sensation of requited love.
There'd been no hesitation, no off-putting offers of coffee or awkward pauses in doorways; after dealing with jackets and motorcycle gear Danny had simply turned to Martin and opened his arms, and Martin had stepped into them. Sharp-edged desire was there at once, all the keener for the years it had been denied. Impatient to be skin to skin, they'd stripped to their shorts in the living room, a complicated dance punctuated with long pauses for focused explorations with lips and fingers. And when Danny tried to urge Martin toward the bedroom, Martin had shaken his head no and guided them to the carpeted living room floor, where the last cotton barriers were hastily removed.
Danny shifted in tingling remembrance of that first, hurried coupling. Martin had taken control with a loving and firm touch, flying Danny dizzyingly high before performing an act of such stunning intimacy that he could only manage a silent shout as he'd come convulsively into the heated chamber of Martin's mouth. A series of hard, demanding kisses had followed, further drawing Danny into a whirlpool of need that could only be quenched in the same manner, despite Martin's breathless assurances that anything at all would be good enough. A quick twist and Danny had been on top of Martin, ripping a path of oral seduction from Martin's swollen lips to the soft expanse of his inner thighs before initiating the final caress that had Martin doubling over with ecstasy.
It was far beyond what Danny had ever dared imagined, even on his loneliest nights. They'd lain entangled on the floor for a while afterward, exchanging lazy, open-mouthed kisses until Martin had emitted a tight little groan. Memories of canes and a poorly disguised limp had Danny on his feet almost instantly, the post-sex languor pushed aside by the single-minded intention to see to Martin's comfort. He'd helped Martin to his feet and they'd paused for another embrace, one of reassurance and reconnection, before separating into different directions.
Easy. That was Danny's conclusion now as he caught the first hint of birdsong on the freshening breeze coming through his open window. It was as if all the months of miscommunication and separation had cleared a path for this night so that there wasn't anything else to do but be together. If the first time they'd made love had been a frenzied, almost adolescent affair, by the time they'd met up again in the middle of Danny's bed it was as though they'd been lovers for years. Somehow each man knew the direct path of pleasure for the other and despite both of them being strong-minded and stubborn, there was no struggle for dominance except in play.
But the best part of the night, to Danny's thinking, had come after they'd exhausted each other to the point of unconsciousness. Danny's mind had been blanked by with the enormity of having just been welcomed inside Martin's body; his muscles still thrummed with the violent rhythm of their love-making and the equally gut-ripping sense of loss when they could no longer stay joined at the most intimate union. He'd remained where climax had left him, his body pressed close to Martin's sweat-streaked back, his hands still tucked possessively over the warm, damp skin of Martin's groin. A slight ripple in Martin's arms had alerted Danny to semi-awareness as he'd strained to hear Martin's sex-roughened voice.
"Don't know if I mentioned this earlier," Martin had whispered, "but I love you."
He hadn't and neither, Danny realized, had he. He'd taken it as self-evident but hearing the words so soon after pouring out his heart by the actions of his body sent Danny higher than any sexual gratification ever could. Made nearly incoherent by the emotions that choked him, Danny had buried his face in the moist skin of Martin's neck as he struggled for composure he didn't entirely want.
"God, Martin," he'd murmured, voice cracking. "Love you, too. So fucking much."
Martin had flexed his back, dislodging Danny until they were entwined face to face, mouths joined in a desperate kiss as they fought to communicate beyond the restricting capacity of mere words. Exhaustion had finally overtaken them soon after, wrapped around each other in a bruising tangle that only sleep would loosen.
A gust of cool wind silenced the bird outside Danny's window, rattling the blinds and telling him that the summer heat was about to break in a big way. His attention was caught by a soft murmur beside him and he slid down the bed onto his side, hoping the small noise presaged Martin's return to awareness. With a deprecating and silent chuckle, Danny had to admit he was so besotted that he even missed the bastard when he slept.
He wasn't disappointed; a louder sound, something between a sigh and groan, preceded a spine-snapping stretch before Martin lifted his head enough to turn it toward Danny, immediately laying it back down on the pillow as he gave Danny a sleepy, sated grin.
"You okay?" he inquired quietly, his dark eyes clearing with several slow blinks.
"I'm good," Danny ignored the inner voice that chided him over using a phrase that didn't come close to how he felt. "Just enjoying the moment."
"Really?" Martin reached across the small space between them and slid his fingers into the hair at Danny's temple. "You enjoy watching me drool in my sleep?"
Danny captured the wandering fingers and brought them to his lips for a quick caress. "Hell, yeah. How crazy is that?"
"Crazy enough."
Simultaneously they scooted closer, arms and legs finding all the right places until Danny lay with his head high on Martin's chest, his mouth less than an inch away from the pulse that beat in Martin's throat.
"Could get used to this," he muttered.
"Planning on it," Martin answered. His matter-of-fact tone brought home the only thing that had come close to dulling the happiness that Danny was about to drown in, and so with his pounding heart lodged high in his chest, he pursued the last obstacle to his new life with Martin.
"Then it's just you and me, right?"
To his credit, Martin didn't pretend to misunderstand Danny's question. His arms tightened briefly before subsiding into an embrace that radiated comfort.
"Listen to me, Danny. Even when there was someone else, there wasn't, you know? And now—" Martin swallowed, enticing Danny to press a kiss to his Adam's apple. "Now, yeah, it's just you and me, no one else. Not ever, okay?"
Danny closed his eyes and smiled into Martin's shoulder. "Damn right it's okay."
The next time Danny awakened it was to an empty bed bathed in filtered sunshine and the smell of fresh coffee beside him on the nightstand. He thought he'd heard a phone ring, his suspicion confirmed when Martin came into the bedroom, tucking his tee shirt into his jeans.
Danny sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. "Your turn, huh?"
Martin knelt on the bed and grasped Danny gently by the neck to give him a quick kiss. "Yeah, we've been called in. Six kids and a teacher missing from a middle school in Harlem. Looks like it's gonna be a long day."
He started to move away but Danny stopped him with a hand around his wrist. "Come back here after? Better yet, come to my office. I'll be working late."
Martin sat down on the bed. "Sounds good. I'll call you when I can, let you know what's going on. In the meantime—"
"In the meantime," Danny broke in, "you be careful."
"You, too."
They shared a long glance that spoke of much more than just a casual parting on a workday morning. They exchanged one one last, lingering kiss and then Martin was gone, and Danny was left to stare at the place where they'd made love, feeling more deeply content and vividly alive than he could ever recall.
Six months earlier Danny had walked away from a career he'd loved to follow a path that couldn't include Martin Fitzgerald. In that time he'd never questioned his decision and he didn't now, despite the pain it had caused at the time. To know that separation from Martin hadn't changed his feelings meant that he was free to express them, something being members of the same FBI squad would have prohibited. He looked back at the day that Martin had taken his hand in a cold farewell and now painted over that memory with the reality of a scruffy and well-loved Martin, asleep in his arms.
Faced with a future that suddenly seemed incandescent, Danny rolled out of bed and grabbed his coffee, his mind already at work on both Rosalia's defense and the rest of his life with Martin.
I obviously chose to ignore both Elena Delgado and Ann Cassidy, the former because she's annoying and the latter because I find the subplot featuring her singularly uninteresting.
As always, couldn't have done this without Aithine's endless encouragement and good-natured patience ("finished that chapter yet?").
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