Tools of ignorance (noun): the protective equipment of a catcher.
The bottle opened with a satisfying crack as the paper seal gave way under the pressure of his cold fingers. A few quick twists and the black cap went flying through the air and into the plastic bag he'd set on the kitchen counter, a bag already containing three empty beer bottles and a likewise empty bottle of Baileys that he'd gotten for Christmas last year.
This bottle of Chivas Regal was all he had left and it should have been empty now too, except for the withering promise that he'd made the day it'd been given to him. A rueful smile twisting his lips, he took a scratched juice glass down from the cupboard and grabbed the bottle. His second-hand Formica table hardly seemed like the place to be drinking the finest whisky money could buy—but no where else in his apartment seemed to be any more appropriate. He set the glass and the bottle down, then rotated the chair so that he could straddle the seat. It was late, he was tired, and his place smelled like a singles bar at two a.m., but still, he'd made a pledge and he was going to keep it.
Before pouring, he held the bottle up to his nose and inhaled. He'd always liked Chivas—it was a little softer than some of the other blended whiskies he'd tasted. Normally, he would've had this on the rocks—only one ice cube, though. Just enough to cool the bite when it hit the back of his throat. This time he simply poured a generous two fingers, stopped, added a third, knowing full well he'd never be able to get it all down, but what the hell—who was going to know?
It was a meaningless act of rebellion, but he appreciated the gesture anyway.
He held the glass up to his eyes. Even through the dulling scratches and in the purplish light of the fluorescent overhead, the beauty of the liquor shone through. Rich, ripe amber, the color reminded him of something but he couldn't quite recall what it was. The aroma caught at him again and he held the glass to his nose, sniffing appreciatively. Wetting his lips, he placed the rim of the glass to his mouth and tipped it carefully. A small amount of liquid ran in and pooled on his tongue and he forced himself not to swallow—that just wouldn't be fair to something so innately perfect. He closed his eyes and sat the glass on the table as the alcohol began its gentle burn across his soft palate.
Oh, yeah, he knew this flavor. This was the flavor of overly decorated meeting rooms, of late nights in the library after the opera or the ballet or the theater. It was the taste of power and privilege—what men drank in dark rooms as they sealed the deal or reached a gentlemen's agreement. It was the first taste of alcohol he remembered, stolen from someone's discarded glass after one of his mother's parties. But that had probably been only the twelve year stuff—only important occasions warranted the full eighteen.
Or so his father had taught him.
He took another drink and grimaced—it really need that ice cube. This time he let the liquid wash around his gums and teeth so that his entire mouth became coated with the essence of the drink. The aroma danced across his sinuses and filled his head with memories—first taste, first dance, first kiss, first lover he'd taken, first man he'd loved. But this bottle had only one memory to belong to it—and it was to that memory that he tipped the glass into the air in an acknowledgment of just how much he'd failed.
In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised.
He'd had enough of the scotch to take the strain out of his shoulders, leaving him lightly dulled but no more. He had the next two days off, so there wasn't even an inkling of residual guilt for drinking so late. It was as he was trying to martial his tired muscles into some kind of upward movement that he heard the rattle of metal hitting wood, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted into his apartment's door.
Part of him was angry; this whole ritual was about Danny, for Danny—but Danny's attendance was definitely not needed. Nor was it expected; Martin had gotten back late and they'd decided to check in the following day to make plans—maybe a trip to the batting cage and dinner, maybe a movie and takeout. Thinking back, he should've known that Danny couldn't make such a profound confession and then just let it go; it had been awkward, a little uncomfortable, but not so bad that Martin felt they had to talk it out.
Apparently, Danny felt differently.
So, sure, part of him was upset to hear the door open because he'd been content to let the subject drop. But he still looked up with a sincerely welcoming smile as Danny strutted in, looking impossibly bright in a pair of faded Levi's and a thin silk sweater the color of a freshly minted penny. His hair was wet and the shoulders of the sweater were spotted with raindrops, same as the paper bag he carried in the crook of one arm.
No one had ever affected him the way this man did, Martin thought with resigned amusement—no one like Danny Taylor, with his dark hair that grew in every direction and the smile that lived in his eyes. Martin sometimes tried to believe that smile was for him alone, but he knew better—because this Danny Taylor had an inner life that baffled him, annoyed him at times. Even when they made love, Danny held part of himself back, although he was the most generous and thoughtful lover Martin had ever known. Still, Martin wanted to touch that place inside that Danny kept hidden—but he was always afraid of what would be asked in return if he ever did.
Tonight, he could see a definite wariness sharpening the brown eyes as Danny sat his bag on the counter and turned to him. Before he could get out a more than a brief hello, Danny's fingers were sliding through his hair and angling his head upwards for a possessive kiss that skirted on the edge of anger. Martin took it, all of it, understanding all too well else how letting small pieces of yourself escape made you defensive.
Strong fingers plied at the hair on his neck, right where it was finally long enough again to brush the top of his dress shirt. He'd removed his suit coat as soon as he'd gotten home, but had only taken time to loosen his tie and collar before moving on to his self-appointed task. The kiss waned and Danny straightened, keeping his fingers on the warm skin behind Martin's ear. With an odd little smile, he inclined his head toward the bottle of scotch.
"Everything go okay?"
Martin nodded; he wasn't a drinker by any means, but sometimes a case took out of him what only a stiff shot could replace. Even before Danny had made his admission, Martin had been careful to never drink in front of his co-workers beyond a friendly beer off the clock, because drinking often led to carelessness, and that was something Martin found hard to forgive. Especially in himself.
"Yeah, yeah, it went fine. The girl's okay, the mom's up to speed—they even have a shot at reuniting some day. I think that's what Viv's hoping for, anyway."
The fingers at his neck slipped forward, hooking into the knot of his tie and pulling it lower.
"Then why the hard stuff?"
Martin stiffened at the gentle interrogation. On any other night, this wouldn't have been a big deal—but this was their first time alone since they'd visited at the SCA facility and being caught with an open bottle of expensive scotch wasn't how Martin had planned things at all.
Shrugging, he stood up and pulled the chair out between his legs, resettling it beneath the table. Danny had retained hold of his tie and now used it to reel him in with one hand as the other crept around to the small of his back. Despite the ambiguity of the moment, he couldn't deny Danny's questing mouth and he let himself get caught up in another kiss of restrained aggression. Danny was in control, but it was such an easy domination that Martin felt confused, even as his body responded to the tender intrusion of Danny's tongue in his mouth.
No one, he thought hazily as his tie was removed by nimble fingers. No one but Danny.
The kiss broke with a sweep of rain-scented air across his lips and he opened his eyes to see Danny's face twisted in comic distaste.
"Man, I never did like scotch."
"Sorry," Martin muttered as Danny's fingers massaged his lower back, just above his belt, instinctively seeking out knots that melted at his touch.
Danny tilted his head and winked at him. "No problem. Besides," he continued as he let Martin go and reached for the paper bag, "I brought something that will make your mouth forget all about that crap. Here."
He took the paper bag and immediately felt the cold radiating from it. Momentarily forgetting his unease, he broke into a grin and reached inside to pull out a quart of Olympic Mountain chocolate chip ice cream.
"Aw, man, my favorite—where did you find it?" He looked up to see Danny's eyes fixed on his face, but the answering smile was a beat too slow in coming as Danny shrugged.
"Little gourmet grocery near my place. It was in their 'imported' section."
"Imported?"
"Yeah—anything made west of the Mississippi that shows up in a store in the Bronx? Definitely imported."
Martin started to laugh but Danny's mouth was on his at the same time the carton was snatched out of his hands. As strong hands slid around his waist, Martin could still feel an echo of repressed violence in the kiss, so different from Danny's usual brand of affectionate lust. Subtly disorienting, it was also erotic as hell.
When Danny leaned back, he wasn't surprised to find his shirt had been pulled free of his trousers, although he'd never felt a thing, being too lost in the sensual trap Danny was setting. He's trying to confuse me, he thought as Danny's lips sought out his Adam's apple—and damn it, it's working.
"Okay, okay," he breathed against still-damp hair. "Whatever you want, you got it. Just let me finish up here." He pulled away reluctantly from arms that tightened before letting him go. As he gathered up the glass and bottle, he could hear Danny behind him, putting the ice cream in the freezer and balling up the paper bag. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the plastic sack near the sink.
"That's trash, too—you can toss it in there."
"Got it."
Martin poured the scotch from the juice glass into the sink and then set it aside before reaching for the bottle. It bothered him that his breath was a little shaky, but the vibe Danny was giving off had him perplexed. After all, he wasn't even supposed to be here tonight and it wasn't like they lived in the same neighborhood.
No, Danny had something on his mind, and Martin wanted to know what it was, before his body betrayed him completely and nothing was accomplished. First things first, though; he took the bottle by the neck and began emptying it down the drain.
"Whoa, whoa—what the hell are you doing?" Danny moved around him and caught him by the wrist, forcing the bottle upwards and splashing some of the liquid on the counter. The smoky aroma of scotch filled the air and in a burst of embarrassment, Martin tried to babble out an apology.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry—look, I'll do this some other time, okay?"
"Do what?"
The hint of steel in Danny's voice was like a splash of cold water in Martin's eyes. He swallowed and reached for a paper towel to mop up the spill.
"You know, get rid of this stuff."
"What stuff?"
Martin jerked his thumb toward the plastic sack. "The alcohol I had around here. I mean, there wasn't a lot, but—" He stumbled to a stop at the cold look in Danny's eyes—a look that reminded him of his first lonely days with the team, when all he and Danny shared was a healthy, professional suspicion of each other.
Fear coiled deep in his stomach as he hurriedly tried to put the puzzle together. Danny had shown up unexpectedly, without a phone call—not his usual style at all, because aside from shooting off his mouth occasionally, he was a pretty thoughtful guy. And instead of his usual baseball tee or sweatshirt, there was that silk sweater, just begging to be stroked—and removed. They stood close enough now for Martin to pick up on Danny's cologne, the same scent he'd asked Danny to stop wearing at work because it reminded him of the first time they'd made love and it got to him every time. Then there was the ice cream, his favorite and so hard to find on the east coast, and those hard kisses that he could still feel, still taste—still want.
But now Danny's face was smooth, his eyelids drooping to cover any expression that would help him out.
"Do we have a problem here, Martin?" Danny asked, his voice painfully neutral.
"No," he whispered with quick shake of his head. He noticed that his hand was still clenched around the neck of the bottle, so he set it down and moved away from the sink. Distance—he needed distance and a moment to think, to figure out why this was happening.
"No," he repeated firmly as he turned to face Danny. "Believe me, there's no problem here."
Danny leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, stretching the silk in all the right places.
"Then why are you throwing away expensive scotch?" Danny looked over his shoulder to the plastic sack. "And beer and—look at that—Baileys? Someone has good taste." He straightened and smiled a little, but Martin wasn't fooled.
"Christmas present," he replied automatically.
"Ah, right. But now you know you're sleeping with a drunk, so you'd better get rid of the stuff in case he decides to go on a binge in your apartment, is that it?"
Understanding began to rise like bile and he stretched a hand toward Danny. "No, that's not it—"
Danny stepped out of reach, backing away with his hands up. "Like hell it isn't. you don't think I didn't catch the look in your eyes when I told you? And don't tell me you didn't already know."
There was no stopping the rush of heat to his face—Martin had heard about the alcoholism from Sam, right after he'd joined the department. It'd been a casual conversation, something about grabbing a beer after work and wondering if they should ask Danny. Sam had told him straight up why that wasn't a good idea and Martin hadn't given it much thought—until Danny had started to matter to him.
All those times he had to take off after work or asked to meet Martin late, those afternoons he took odd lunch hours, the Saturday mornings when he left their shared bed before Martin was fully awake—subliminally, Martin knew that Danny had to have a good and personal reason. Danny was too honest to hide something that might hurt him, and yet hearing Danny attended AA twice a week had lifted a burden he hadn't known he'd shouldered. Now that hard-won relief was turning into a fast flowing river of guilt as he began to see the situation from Danny's viewpoint.
And oh, God—he was going to screw up again if he wasn't careful. Every line in Danny's body spoke of hurt and anger and Martin still wasn’t sure how he'd caused so much damage in so little time.
He dug his palms into his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, okay. I knew. Seems like it's pretty common knowledge. But you never said—"
"Yeah. I never said. I'd hoped it wasn't going to be a problem. Apparently, it is."
Martin felt an upsurge of anger and swiftly pressed against it. Somewhere he'd missed something crucial, but he'd never intended to hurt Danny, not in any way. If Danny hadn't shown up unannounced, looking like a guy hoping to get laid, this would have been a non-issue.
"Why did you come here tonight?"
"What?"
"You. Here. How come."
Danny shrugged and looked away. Martin's own gaze dropped and he stared at the floor, realizing he'd asked the wrong question again. Instead of resenting Danny for showing up unexpectedly, he wanted to feel—he wanted to feel happy, pleasantly surprised. Certainly not defensive for doing something he'd hoped would be a transparent act of caring.
He was about to try again to unravel the situation when Danny spoke quietly, hands clasped tightly like a doubting supplicant.
"Does it bother you that much?"
"That you're an alcoholic? No, of course—"
"No, that I didn't tell you."
Martin started to respond automatically, but paused. It did bother him that as close as they'd gotten—no, as close as he'd allowed Danny to get to him—this hadn't come up sooner. Danny's voice had been full of quiet challenge when he'd confessed his weakness—it was almost as if he was resigned to Martin's rejection. That was total bullshit as far as Martin was concerned—rejecting Danny had never been an option.
"Yeah, it did," he said slowly. "I thought—"
"Then maybe we should stop this. Would that make things easier for you?"
Martin stared at him, the devastating and unexpected words hanging between them in the whisky-scented air. Danny was completely serious but beyond that, he looked lost, somehow, and so sad—like a kid being told he had to give back his new puppy. Martin didn't want to continue this conversation—God, no, he wanted to fold Danny in his arms and tell him it was okay, that he was sorry for whatever he'd done wrong.
And he wanted to beg Danny to unsay everything.
"Why?" he asked instead, keeping his tone even with an effort. "Because you're an alcoholic? Or because you had to actually tell me you're an alcoholic?" Danny opened his mouth to reply, but he pressed on. "Either way, it doesn't matter, okay? It doesn't change anything."
Danny jerked his thumb toward the sink. "That. That's change."
"That? Jesus, Danny, I just wanted it out of the house—I wasn't doing it like some weird sacrifice and hey—I never asked for anything to be easy, so don't hand me that crap. Look, I'm sorry you were pissed that I made you confess about your drinking, but damn it—it would've been a helluva lot better if you'd just come out and told me yourself. You could've trusted me, all right?"
Danny's head came up, eyes flashing as he reached back and gripped the edge of the counter with stiff fingers. "Trust? You want to talk about trust? Tell me, Martin—tell me how much you trust me. Yeah, go ahead."
Martin threw up his hands, a grinding laugh making its way past the lump in his throat. "Is that what this is about? Trust? Jesus, man, I trust you with everything! What more do you want?"
"Everything? Oh, yeah, that's just great." Suddenly Danny was in his face, using his height advantage ruthlessly as he raised his hand and tapped Martin's chest with his knuckle. "What about what's in here? What about that, hunh?"
Martin batted his hand away. "What the hell are you talking about?" He was proud his voice didn't shake, but he could feel slick panic begin to race along his veins and burst through his skin like sweat.
"You can't con a con artist, Martin." Danny's voice had dropped to an intimate murmur, neatly slicing through the self-righteous anger Martin was scrabbling to reach. "You are so afraid of failing that you don't even try. It's so much easier dealing with other people's weaknesses than your own, isn't it? See, if no one sees your weaknesses, then they can't hurt you. Isn't that right?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered—and this time, his voice did shake.
Danny smiled, but it was empty and dry. "You can't save the world, Martin. And you don't have to save me. Only I can do that. And I do it every day that I don't drink."
Was that what he was trying to do? Turn Danny into a victim so that Martin didn't have to deal with his own vulnerability? His head began to swim, his senses overwhelmed by Danny's proximity. The last time they'd been together, Danny had been in a playful mood, seducing Martin with gentle tickles and teasing kisses until Martin had been breathless beneath him. Martin ached for Danny to touch him now, to reach out and catch him close before everything they'd worked so hard for slipped away—but it was too late. Danny was already backing off, his eyes drifting toward the door.
"Sorry I stopped by without calling," he said mildly, almost kindly. "Think I'd better take off."
"Danny, wait." As Danny stepped around him, Martin threw out his arm and caught him across the waist. Danny stopped immediately, leaving them shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions. "Don't—" He swallowed and raised his eyes to a crack spreading across the ceiling. "Don't go, okay?"
For a few strained seconds, he could feel Danny breathe against his arm, the easy in and out the only movement of the man beside him. Then Danny took a backward step and Martin dropped his arm, eyes straight ahead as he listened to Danny cross the kitchen floor. When he knew that Danny had paused at the threshold, he closed his eyes, hoping to hear the sound of returning footsteps, but all he heard was Danny's soft voice, saying he'd see him at work—and then a door was opened and closed, and Martin was alone.
Long moments passed while he stood motionless. It was really pretty nice, just standing there in the middle of his kitchen, not moving. He looked up at the crack in the ceiling and made a mental note to mention it to the super. The apartment was so quiet, he could hear the TV set from next door—they were watching a Law and Order rerun. The kitchen still smelled like a bar and as his gaze fell on the whisky bottle, he realized he hadn't finished what he'd started out to do, but in order to finish the job, he'd have to move, to release his grip on the linoleum—and on the curious dead space he had inside.
Oh yeah, moving would be bad. He knew once his muscles and bones and blood began to react to the dictates of his mind, the pain would start and he had no idea where it would end.
Or if it ever could.
Scotch was never his drink. Too old school, too white bread for a man of even his admittedly diverse tastes. He'd been know to drink it on occasion, but then he'd drink anything if the thirst was on him hard enough.
No, rum was his poison. Rum had been the foundation of his downfall—not the only kind of liquor he favored, but the easiest to get and the easiest to hide. Cuba libres, mojitos—so innocent-looking, so lethal. Rum flowed like mother's milk in Florida and to this day he still loved its sweet, corrupting flavor. It amazed him that after so many years the urge could still be so strong; he knew even now that he was playing the devil's game by setting the glass so close, but it was important that he shared space with his old friend because he had a feeling his future depended on it.
Looking down into the liquid, he was careful not to inhale the aroma. It would catch in his mouth and make him salivate, and then the ache would start—and the game would begin. One drink. Not even that—one sip—and he'd quit. Just enough to "wet his whistle"—that's what Gino always said as he'd lift a meaty thigh onto the bar stool at The Quarter Turn back in Hialeah. Just give him a snort for the road—but eight hours later, they'd be closing the bar together, another night passed in boozy comradeship—if they were lucky. If not, if Gino pissed him off or his horse came up lame in the third or the drunk next to him spilled his beer for the second time—well, things got ugly, because one thing everyone knew about Danny—he had a sharp temper that drinking honed to a fine point.
He dipped his finger into the glass, letting the whisky gather on the tip. God, things had gotten out of control so fast the last time he'd been in this apartment. It was his fault—he shouldn't have given in to the urge to see Martin that night because his motives had been all wrong. He'd accused Martin of not being able to trust him, but he was the one who'd forfeited that trust by trying to be something he wasn't. He knew it then and he knew it now—but that hadn't prevented him from making things worse, which was why he was here tonight, waiting in Martin's kitchen, hoping to God he could find a way back for them both.
The days between that night and this had been long and difficult, their routine of spending off time together obviously discarded. They hadn't seen each other again until the following Monday; over the weekend, Danny had picked up the phone three times but had never placed the call, fearing—hell, he wasn't sure what, but to be the object of anyone's pity, especially this man's, was enough to slide the phone back into his pocket every time he was tempted.
It was the fact that Martin never phoned him that made him realize that what they'd had—what they'd been building—was slipping away. It played hell with his emotions, working with Martin for the next week and knowing that at the end of the day, they wouldn't be together. Martin had taken to treating him carefully, never looking him in the eyes, never rude—it was as though they'd gone back in time to Martin's first few months with the team. Then one day he'd come back from the field after a painful interview with a victim's mother and found a sandwich and coffee at his desk. He'd asked Viv where it'd come from and she'd said she didn't know—but it was his favorite from the deli around the corner, the one where'd he explained to Martin the value of a good kosher dill and sure enough, there was one wrapped in wax paper next to the sandwich. But the next time they'd seen each other, Martin had been as aloof as ever, giving Danny no clue as to what was going on in his head. They spent days like that, barely speaking to each other and never beyond the scope of the investigation. Danny felt as though they were both waiting for something, for the other one to bend or break their hurtful silence but neither of them sure how to begin.
And then Danny received his orders to ship out to Iraq.
It was just going to be a flyby—he and Jack would only be there long enough to get their interviews before turning around and coming back home. It would be nothing more than grueling trip with little or no sleep except what they could snatch on the flight and a very good chance of getting shot at while they were there. He and Jack had a quick meeting with an Army liaison officer who told them to leave all personal effects behind except government issued ID, the reason being that if they were killed or captured, they'd give nothing over that could be used against friendly forces. That meant wallets, cell phones, jewelry—and keys.
In hindsight, Danny knew exactly why he used that as an excuse to force some kind of communication with Martin—he knew he'd try anything to break through the barriers they'd built. The keys to Martin's apartment were on their own ring, attached to another ring that held the rest of Danny's keys. He'd waited until they were alone in the bullpen, then had pulled off the copied set and laid them on Martin's desk, looking down on a surprised Martin with a regretful smile before turning on his heel and walking out. But when he and Jack had returned from the Middle East, he'd found the keys still on their ring and thumbtacked beside the picture of his parents. Martin's noncommittal greeting to him and Jack at the conference table later that day had betrayed nothing, but the heavy weight of the key ring in Danny's pocket had given him the hope that maybe the best thing he had going in his life could be salvaged.
It was the conclusion of that same case that had propelled him back to Martin's apartment, to the scene of his latest failure. Shifting gingerly on the hard kitchen chair, Danny began to feel the effects of his struggle with Kevin Grant's fiancée. He'd been desperate to keep her out of the line of fire, using his entire body to hold her down—but she'd fought back hard. Now he could feel welts rising as his shirt rubbed against his ribcage, right where her elbow had repeatedly found its mark. There were scrapes along his shin from the heel of her shoe digging into his leg and the base of his skull ached where he'd bounced it against the wall when he'd pulled them both down as the bullets had started to fly.
Closing his eyes, he fought back a sigh. He'd seen exactly what was going to happen and the helplessness that he'd felt at his inability to prevent it had left him feeling far more bruised on the inside than any outward injury. The tragedy of a wasted life was always intolerable—but he also recognized that Grant had made too many bad choices, the kind of choices that had ultimately killed him.
He rubbed at his closed eyes with his fingers. Jesus, he wished Martin would come home.
The damn thing was, if Grant hadn't chosen to go out that way, if Danny hadn't been directly in the line of fire himself as Grant committed suicide, he doubted he'd have found the courage to come here tonight. It certainly hadn't been his plan, but Martin himself had changed that. Because after all the excitement was over and Danny'd walked out of that house alive, there he'd been, standing tall, his hands on his hips.
It had been no more than a quick, connecting glance, almost lost in the confusion of the moment. Danny had looked past a charging Jack to see Martin sliding off his sunglasses to stare at him as if demanding that their eyes meet, his face colorless except for the patches of sweat on his cheeks that glistened in the sunlight. Their eyes caught and what Danny saw in the bleak blue gaze carried him through the rest of a difficult day and into Martin's apartment where he waited now, his only companion the last of the Chivas he'd saved after pouring the rest down the drain.
He lifted his finger and let whisky droplets fall onto the kitchen table's cheap veneer. He'd found the Chivas when he'd gone looking for a glass after checking out the refrigerator for a bottle of water and finding none. It looked like it had been shoved in there quickly, the glasses and plates pushed aside. He took it down and looked at the amount still left, confident it hadn't gone down since the last time he'd been here. Yeah, that was another game he'd played as a drunk—how much can you get away with and convince yourself you'd had hardly any at all? But he understood why the scotch was still there—Martin's misguided gesture, once he'd rejected it, had lost its meaning and there was no point in wasting good alcohol.
Unless it was for a desperate cause.
A muffled noise raised Danny's gaze from the kitchen table, his heart quickening with the realization that Martin was home. He pushed the glass away, leaning back in the chair to wipe his sweaty palms against his pant legs as the air pressure changed in the apartment. He heard the click of the front door being quietly closed and then Martin was standing in the kitchen doorway, his face carved in lines of tired confusion as he took in Danny, the glass, and the empty bottle on the counter.
"I didn't drink it," Danny said swiftly.
"Get up."
Swallowing at the ragged edge in Martin's voice, he shook his head. "I'm sorry I—"
"I said get up."
Danny pushed back the chair and rose to his feet. Before he could step away from the table, the chair was kicked aside as he was taken into a bruising embrace. Martin's hands clawed at his back, his nose buried in the warm skin of Danny's neck as he pulled him closer. After a second's surprised hesitation, Danny's arms went around Martin's waist and neck and he matched the fierce pressure with his own desperate strength.
All the hurts of the day were swept aside as Martin pushed him against the counter and tightened his hold. Nothing in their past together had ever been like this—nothing had felt so devastatingly perfect as Martin vibrating against him, infusing his own tired body with welcome, bittersweet energy. He smelled of sweat and coffee and the wool of his coat was scratchy against Danny's cheek—but the tender roughness was exactly the touch that Danny needed, the only thing that could reclaim this horrible day.
"Jesus, Danny," Martin murmured against his ear. "Jesus."
"I know," he whispered back—and he did. Had the circumstances been reversed, had it been Martin held captive, the result would have been the same. That was the truth this day had revealed—what had been doubtful between them had become undeniable—what had once been a choice was now inescapable.
When it didn't seem that Martin would ever allow any space between them, Danny reached up and brushed his fingers over the soft curve of Martin's ear. He wanted to look in his eyes, to see the emotion he could feel in the hands that still clutched at him.
"You okay?"
Martin nodded, a small chuckle escaping. "Should've asked you that."
Danny slid his arms around Martin's waist and gave him a quick squeeze. "I was okay the moment I saw you today. You? I gotta say, you don't look so good."
Martin ducked his head, his eyes lowered. Danny tilted his own head downward, forcing their eyes to meet. "Martin?"
Martin straightened his spine and looked at him directly, his hands curving around Danny's hips. His swallowed and his voice was thick when he spoke.
"You had the easy part, remember?"
Feeling strong fingers flex against ribs, Danny smiled in complete understanding. "Yeah, I know. Sorry about that."
"Try not to let it happen again, okay?"
"Do my best. Next time, your turn."
The weak banter faltered to a stop as their eyes locked once more. Martin opened his mouth as if to say something else, but now Danny wanted more than words. With a muttered curse, he captured Martin's lips with his own, needing to renew the taste of Martin in his mouth, wanting to fill his senses, trying to get it all back with one turbulent kiss.
It was no time for tenderness, but he ravaged Martin's mouth as gently as he could, letting each panted breath that passed between them assuage the hurt that had gnawed at them for days. A storm began to swell in his veins as he flipped Martin around until he had him pressed against the refrigerator, his hands scrabbling up Martin's chest to shove the suit coat off his shoulders. Martin let the coat drop off his arms onto the floor and kicked it away, his own hands worrying at the button of Danny's collar. As Martin's hands were slipping inside his shirt, the familiar, unwelcome trill of a cell phone cut through the air.
"No, no, no," Martin moaned as his head fell back against the refrigerator.
Danny closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Martin's shoulder. "Man, I don't believe this." He took a step back and pulled the phone out of his pocket, watching with dismay as Martin turned his back and bent down to retrieve his coat from the floor.
"Yeah, Taylor. Hey, Jack."
The conversation was brief, but the mood had completely changed by the time he'd finished. Martin had left the kitchen and come back, coat gone and tie removed. As Danny replaced the phone in his pocket, he looked at Martin and suppressed a sigh. He wasn't looking at Danny; instead, he was gazing down at the glass of whisky, wearing his most impassive expression, the one he hid behind when he was afraid he'd let something slip.
"That was Jack. Grant's fiancée—he wants me to go see her."
Martin looked up. "Now?"
Danny nodded. "Yeah. She's having a hard time with what went down today. Guess since I was there, she wants to try and make sense out of things."
The corner of Martin's mouth lifted. "Can't make sense out of a senseless act."
"I know." Danny shrugged. "But I said I'd go."
"Okay."
Danny waited for something more, something to guide him through the next ten seconds, but when Martin didn't continue, he took a step toward the door.
"Wait."
Danny paused, turning to see Martin lift the glass of whisky and stare at it before pivoting to pour it into the sink. He slammed the glass onto the counter and crossed the floor in two long strides, taking Danny's face between his palms and kissing him hard.
"Come back here when you're done." Martin's lips drifted across his cheek, his fingers tangling in Danny's hair.
"It may be late—"
"I don't care." He burrowed his nose beneath Danny's ear. "We need to talk."
Danny cupped his hand around Martin's cheek, pressing him closer.
"I know."
He'd told himself he'd just lay down on the bed for a minute. After kicking off his shoes and tossing his tie aside, he stacked the pillows against the wall and stretched out with an outdated issue of Sports Illustrated. There was no telling how long Danny would be—but Martin knew Danny wouldn't leave until he'd done everything he could to help.
He awoke when he felt the bed dip. The light from the bedside lamp was still on, pressing against his eyes as he struggled to wakefulness.
"Danny?"
"Yeah." His wrist was taken in a brief grasp before the bed shifted again, signaling Danny's rise from his side. Martin scrubbed at his face as he sat up, the magazine sliding off his lap onto the floor.
"What time is it?"
"Almost midnight. Sorry it took so long."
His eyes finally clear, he looked up to see Danny setting an overnight bag on the floor near the bathroom door. Danny looked tired—there were deep grooves around his mouth as he ran a hand over his hair, giving Martin a quick, wry smile.
"No problem. She okay?"
Danny shrugged and walked over to the small bedroom window and spread the blinds apart with one hand, looking out into the night.
"She'll be all right. It was just hard for her, you know? She knew he was losing it but she didn't know what to do."
"Gotta be rough." Martin rose from the bed and stood behind Danny, winding his arms around his waist and pulling him into the shelter of his own sleep-warmed body. Danny hummed contentedly and covered the arms that held him with his own, leaning into the embrace and letting his head fall against a broad shoulder.
After the past week, holding Danny in his arms again was nothing less than a gift, a gift he'd thought he'd been forever denied. He could feel the stress slowly drain from the lean body as he continued to hold him close. Danny seemed disinclined to move aside from twining their fingers where they touched on his arms.
"I never—" Martin began. He stopped to wet his lips before continuing. "I didn't mean anything when I threw that stuff away."
Danny disengaged their hands and gently pushed Martin's arms away. He turned and brushed his knuckles down Martin's cheek, a weary smile gracing his face.
"I know. It just—scared me."
Martin's eyebrows rose—that was the last thing he'd expected. "Scared? I don't—"
Danny held up his hand. "Let me finish, okay? Just let me get this out."
Confused, Martin nodded. "Okay."
Danny strode past him and perched on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable, his eyes fixed on the worn carpet. Martin leaned his shoulders against the bedroom wall and shoved his hands in his pockets as he fought his instinct to go to Danny's side, to comfort him and brush away the pain that lingered between them like a thin mist. When Danny looked up at him, his dark eyes resembling fresh bruises set in his pale face, Martin swallowed and forced himself to remain still.
"See, Martin—becoming addicted to alcohol was the worst thing that ever happened to me, you know? Not something I ever thought I'd have to deal with. I—I was too sharp, too smart for something like that. Finally admitting I had a problem was easy—hell, it was obvious it was the only way I was gonna survive. But I did it, I walked it out, made something of my life. I put the alcoholism into a little box and never let it affect my work, not once. Not until you."
"Me?" Martin whispered automatically.
"Yes, you. Because until you I never cared what people thought or knew or thought they knew about me. It was none of their damn business. I did my job and no one cared that I was a drunk. Then one day I'm noticing that this wet behind the ears rookie with the big blue eyes isn't handling things so good."
Martin rubbed at the self-conscious smile that tugged at his mouth. "So, what you're saying is that I didn't hide it as well as I thought."
Answering amusement washed away some of the weariness from Danny's eyes. "Not from me. Not from someone who was watching. But the thing is—the thing is that you started to matter—and I started to care too much for someone who's supposed to just be a co-worker. Then, after we got together, the last thing I wanted to come between us was my weakness."
He pushed away from the bed and stood in front of Martin, his hands palms up. "Don't you see? I don't want to be weak, Martin—I want to be strong. For you. That's why I never told you about the drinking. You carry the weight of every case, you hurt too much. No way I wanted to be another burden."
He lowered his eyes as his hands dropped to his sides. Martin pushed away from the wall and drew close enough to see the small laugh lines that framed Danny's eyes. He spoke carefully, trying to understand what Danny was telling him.
"So, you were trying to, what—protect me?"
Danny looked up sharply and shook his head. "No. That's not what I meant."
"All right, then what do you mean?"
For an instant, Martin was afraid Danny wouldn't reply. The chocolate eyes looked at him unblinkingly, reflecting some inner struggle that ended when Danny finally spoke, his voice soft and resolute.
"I need to be your shelter, Martin. Not another victim that you can't help, or another situation you can't fix. I said alcohol addiction was the worst thing that ever happened to me, right? Wanna hear something wild? You're the best thing. Swear to God you are. But you have to do one thing for me. One thing—that's all I'm asking."
Martin recoiled slightly, the impact of Danny's words sinking deep in his chest. Danny's expression remained thoughtful, almost distant, as if Martin's response wasn't of much importance, but Martin saw the almost imperceptible flicker of his fingers as he waited for Martin's response. Like a gunfighter, he thought with a flash of black humor.
"What one thing?" he asked around the lump in his throat. No one had ever wanted to be to him want Danny was offering. No one had ever cared so much.
Danny covered the intervening space between them to stand close to Martin, yet not touching. He tilted his head a little, his gaze resting briefly on Martin's mouth before the long lashes lifted.
"Let me be there for you." His voice deepened, roughening as he continued. "On the street, at the office, you can be whatever you need to be to get through. But here, when it's just you and me, I need all of you. I can't do with anything less anymore."
Martin opened his mouth to interrupt, only to find Danny's forefinger resting lightly on his lips, stilling the coming words. The finger slipped down, caressing Martin's chin, floating down the length of his throat before placing his palm over Martin's heart in a gentle echo of the last time they'd touched.
"And you?" Martin whispered. "Is this a mutual thing?"
The slight, sideways shake of Danny's head didn't bother him; he knew that Danny had been expecting the question, wouldn't have asked it of him if he hadn't thought it through.
"I have nothing to hide from you, Martin. There may be some things I haven't told you, but nothing I've kept from you deliberately." He began to lift his hand away, but Martin caught it and pressed it back.
"So where do we go now?" he asked, his tone hushed. Danny had given a lot tonight—even by showing up, he'd demonstrated his commitment to something they had yet to name. But Martin still hesitated, knowing from experience that nothing this important came easy.
Danny's eyes narrowed as his fingers lightly scratched at the stiff fabric of Martin's shirt. "Tell me about the bottle."
"The bottle?"
"Yeah, you know, that pricey Chivas. The whisky you were drinking the last time I was here."
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that. Come on—that had all the markings of some kind of ritual. You wanna tell me about it?"
Martin removed Danny's fingers, giving them a quick squeeze before releasing them as he stepped around him. It all seemed so stupid now, such a pointless gesture.
His back to Danny, he wrapped his arms around his waist and stared down at a pair of grass-stained Nikes that he hadn't gotten around to putting away after his last run. He forced air into resisting lungs, trying to smooth out any emotion from his words.
"I was engaged once." There was no sound behind him, nothing to give him a hint of what Danny was thinking. He plowed on, anxious now to get beyond the pain of unpleasant memories. "We were young—too young, in fact—but she was what my dad euphemistically called 'appropriate.'"
"'Appropriate?'"
"Yeah." Martin turned his head, just enough to speak over his shoulder. "Her name was Michelle. Good family, good school, great connections. Everything my dad wanted in a daughter-in-law, which should have been my first clue."
"What happened?" Danny's soft voice was much closer.
"I ended it. I was—confused, you know? I had the perfect girl, my life mapped out before me—and I hated every minute of it. Anyway, when my dad found out, he showed up on my doorstep with the Chivas. God, he was pissed."
He turned, finding Danny only an arm's length away. The lines of fatigue were deepening around the mobile mouth, filling Martin with remorse. The guy needed rest, not a rehash of past failures. He forced a nonchalant smile and shrugged.
"Long story short, he told me the day I found someone as, quote, suitable as Michelle, to bring the bottle back to him and we'd celebrate. I've carried that damn scotch around ever since, half of me angry with my father for being such a bastard and half of me hoping some day we'd actually get a chance to share that drink." A smile devoid of humor twisted his lips. "That maybe I'd made him proud."
"And that night?"
Martin looked at Danny. The slender body was tense, Danny's hand clenched into fists, though the expression on his face told him nothing. Martin felt suddenly exhausted and cold and all he wanted to do was crawl beneath the sheets and lose all the hurt in Danny's arms.
"That night, when you came by, I'd realized that I was tired of being manipulated. That the son my dad wanted didn't exist and holding on to that bottle was like trying to win his approval, even though I knew I never could. Getting rid of it was a relief, Danny. Not a sacrifice."
"Okay," Danny murmured, his hands relaxing. His relief was palpable and Martin wondered why his answer had been so important. "Okay." He scrubbed his hand down his ribcage, wincing slightly. "You, uh, mind if I take a shower? Still a little sore from today."
"No, no, go ahead." As Danny passed him, he touched his arm. "Want company?"
Danny ruffled his hair and planted a light kiss on the side of his mouth. "Not this time."
Martin suppressed a twinge of disappointment as Danny went into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving him unsure of what to do next. He settled for changing into a pair of clean cotton boxers and an old blue tee before straightening up the room.
He was just tossing the Sports Illustrated into the waste can when Danny emerged from the bathroom amid a sticky cloud of steam. With his towel-dried hair poking out everywhere and a towel slung low across his narrow hips, he looked better than he had all night—until Martin noticed the bruises that decorated his chest and abdomen.
"What are those from?" he asked, a jerk of his thumb indicating the damage.
"What? Those? Oh, from Grant's fiancée. Had a hard time keeping her down during the shooting." He crossed to the far side of the bed and pulled back the blanket and sheet. With a swift tug, he removed the towel and slid into bed, eyes closed as he stretched out with his arms flexing over his head. "God, this feels great. I love this bed, you know that? This is a great bed." A loud yawn followed the proclamation as Danny rolled his shoulders and tossed his head, searching for a sweet spot on the pillow.
Martin hid a smile as he started to grab the towel from the floor—then he thought better of it and left it where it was. He checked the front door and turned out the lights in the kitchen, then quickly went through his pre-bed routine, anticipating at least the pleasure of holding Danny while he slept. It would have to be enough for now—but it would be more than he'd ever thought to have again.
He awoke to a feeling of warmth spreading across his stomach, a striking counterpoint to the cool air that brushed against unaccountably exposed arms and legs. He opened his eyes briefly, just enough to see the room was still pitch black, then shifted his hips in search of more of the beguiling sensation. The warmth began to move in a circle, a light massage that stirred the fabric of his tee shirt and tickled across the waistband of his shorts. Still half asleep, he sighed contentedly, consigning the feeling to an elusive dream he was determined to pursue.
He thought he heard a chuckle from somewhere above his head, but he didn't care as another source of heat, moist and pliant, began playing against his throat. When searching fingers slipped underneath the hem of the shorts to stroke his thigh, he moaned and opened his eyes. Barely illumined by the starlight that trickled through the half-opened blinds, Danny was leaning over him, resting his head on one upraised hand.
"Hello, beautiful," he murmured, a smile shining through the low-pitched voice. It was a tone Martin recognized, the words less important than the flirtatious delivery.
"You must still be asleep." Martin kept his tone dry with an effort; Danny had that seductive vibe going that brought the breath in his chest to a standstill.
He heard another indulgent laugh before Danny kissed him, a sweet, yearning kiss that moved across his sleep-soft mouth, warming it, bringing it alive. Danny sucked at his lower lip, his fingers dipping into the junction of Martin's thigh to rub at the delicate skin as Martin shuddered helplessly—it was a sensitive spot for him and Danny knew it. A stroke of a fingertip was enough to melt his bones; Danny's mouth there had the power to render him speechless.
Sliding his free hand beneath Martin's shoulder, Danny increased the pressure of the kiss, his tongue dipping and retreating until Martin raised his head to capture all of it, slinging his arm around Danny's neck to bring him close.
"Hell of a wake up call," he muttered against Danny's still seeking mouth. Danny's hand traveled upward, questing fingers stroking along tender, heated flesh.
"Oh, yeah, you're awake," Danny teased.
Martin declined to reply. He was finally realizing that the blanket and sheet had been tossed aside and the lean contours of Danny's naked body were molded against him. He'd long ago admitted to a profound weakness for Danny's skin—he'd never felt anything so sleek, so perfect, even down to the scars that marred it. As Danny pressed closer, Martin ran his fingertips lightly down the length of Danny's body, starting at the curve of his bicep, flowing over the sharp protrusion of shoulder blade, down the sweet inward slope of waist and hip. When he reached the top of Danny's thighs, he let his fingers dip between them, searching out familiar textures and surfaces that quivered at his touch.
Danny moaned into his mouth and began to undulate against him, a passion-clumsy hand clutching at the loose fabric of Martin's shorts. With a broken growl, Martin grabbed his wrist and held it away, breaking their kiss as he struggled to an upright position and reached for the neckline of his tee shirt. Before he could do it himself, Danny was on his knees beside him and tugging the tee shirt up and over his head, barely allowing him to catch his breath before unleashing an onslaught of punishing kisses as he shoved him flat on the mattress.
Danny was ravenous for him, he could tell—but no more than Martin was for the man who now loomed above him, stripping off Martin's shorts with fierce, awkward movements. Sex between them had always been great, but never had it felt so desperate, as if only by this final reconnection could they completely wipe out the recent hurts. Martin felt it in Danny's hands as they stroked down over his knees and calves—those hands, expressive and strong—were shaking.
"Danny?" he whispered, reaching for him. Danny stopped him with a sharp, negative jerk of his head as he bent low over Martin's hips. His body understood Danny's intent before his mind did, arching up just as Danny bent his head to take him in his mouth. It wasn't unexpected—Danny loved to do this to him—but the ferocity of the usually tender caress took him by surprise. Danny's hands were pressed firmly against his hips as his mouth pleasured him without mercy, his weight resting against Martin's legs.
Despite the fog of passion that swirled in front of Martin's eyes, he was acutely aware that Danny wasn't letting him reciprocate. In fact, Danny seemed hell bent on sending him straight to oblivion without a thought to his own needs—and as hard as it was to change that course, that's not what Martin wanted. Not tonight, not with all it had taken to get this far.
With an effort that he feared would break him in two, Martin managed to hook his hands beneath Danny's arms and haul him upwards, just enough so he could see the confusion in Danny's eyes.
"Slow down," he croaked, tracing his fingertips over Danny's stubble-roughened cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
Danny breathed out hard and licked his lips before nodding his understanding. He slid back up the length of Martin's torso and gathered him close. They laid together, Danny's hand curled protectively over Martin's groin, keeping a light, rhythmic pressure as they changed the atmosphere from desperation to something slower and inherently more intimate. Kisses of profound complexity passed between them, erotic enough in their own right to keep their arousal climbing towards its inescapable conclusion.
When Danny shifted against him, mindlessly seeking release against his thigh, Martin disengaged from Danny's hold and rolled away toward the edge of the bed. Danny followed him, cupping his body from behind and scattering kisses along his shoulders as Martin slipped his hand into the nightstand drawer, rummaging around until he found what they needed.
"Here." He tossed the foil package over his shoulder toward Danny and set the small tube aside. Hearing Danny's little grunt of surprise, he turned to face him, smiling at the glazed look in Danny's eyes. "Okay?"
"Martin? You sure?"
Martin ran the ball of his thumb across Danny's lips, then replaced it with his mouth, kissing him deeply.
"Yeah."
Danny stole a quick kiss and then turned away to prepare himself. Martin tossed both the pillows onto the floor, then crawled up to his knees to enfold Danny from behind. The skin on Danny's back was warm and slick with sweat, sending a pleasurable shiver of anticipation down Martin's spine.
"Ready?" he whispered in a convenient ear. Danny twisted around to take him in his arms but Martin backed away on his knees, a teasing smile lighting his eyes. Danny grinned back and followed, but Martin heard the sharply indrawn breath when he pivoted and grasped the headboard, spreading his knees to give himself over completely to the only man he'd ever trusted like this.
Hot, busy hands immediately began to play over his body, running up his thighs, teasing his nipples, rubbing tantalizingly at the tight curls between his legs. Danny used his mouth as well, stringing moist kisses from the nape of Martin's neck down the base of his spine and further, causing Martin's hands to grip the top of the headboard as he strived to be patient until Danny joined them. He knew Danny was ready when he felt cool slickness replace the wet caress of Danny's tongue, applied with exquisite, reverential thoroughness.
He loved this part almost as much as he loved the act itself; in a life that had seldom allowed him the comfort of feeling cherished by another, this was when he knew, at least for the moment, that he had Danny's heart. No touch had ever be so caring, so loving, no matter how intimate the relationship had been. As Danny breathed against his neck, covering his ear with feathery kisses, Martin felt treasured as never before.
When Danny paused, Martin released a long, luxuriant sigh and waited. Danny's arm curled across his chest to steady him, his other hand carefully parting him to ease the initial passage. As relaxed as Martin was, the pressure he felt was quickly swamped by almost unendurable pleasure as Danny filled him completely. They paused on identical deep breaths, sharing the quicksilver sensation of total connection as Danny wrapped his arms around Martin and held him tight, crooning softly to him in his own unique patois of English and Spanish.
As one, they began to move their bodies. Danny dropped one hand down to cradle Martin's hips, signaling him to set the pace. Martin's eyes were tightly shut as he concentrated on the rhythm of their lovemaking, his pliant body flowing forward and then back again to meet Danny's initial thrusts. As he started to move faster, Danny began to plunge harder, sliding his hands down Martin's arms until their fingers tangled on the smooth edge of the headboard. With no room between their two sweat-streaked bodies, they used the strength in their legs and hips to drive them higher until both of them were gasping for their next breath.
Martin felt the changes in Danny's body first, felt the stiffening in the corded muscles that surrounded him. As much as he prized these fleeting moments of depthless sensation, to prolong it was impossible. He loosened their entwined fingers and led Danny's hand downward, needing the rough, snug embrace of his hand to take him the rest of the way. Danny complied eagerly, his mouth sliding against the damp skin of Martin's temple as they strained harder and harder.
With one particularly adept tug, Martin felt fire erupt from within, spreading outward in blazing waves of pleasure that pulsed through him, nearly doubling him over. Safe and secure in Danny's grasp, he experienced all of it, right down to the newly hot and slick texture of Danny's calloused palm. Danny rocked him easily, letting him recover, but soon his own need became undeniable. He released Martin to wrap his arms around his waist and yank him closer still, a final jerk of his hips and the muffled sounds of his own release panted against the side of Martin's throat. Smaller tremors racking him, Danny heaved a broken sigh when Martin turned his head far enough for their lips to meet in a brief, flawless kiss. As they had when they'd started, they took one moment, one breath in all its stillness, to reconnect to each other emotionally as they drifted downward in sated accord.
With a muted sense of bereavement, Martin felt Danny slip way from him. Even with a parting kiss between his shoulder blades, the feeling intensified when they no longer touched at any point. Martin knew where Danny was and what he was doing, but the loss saddened him anyway. Shaking arms could no longer support him and he slumped forward until his head rested against his forearm where it lay across the top of the headboard. The feeling remained until Danny rejoined him, easing him away from the wall and down into the shelter of his arms. Languorous kisses distracted him from the brush of terrycloth on sensitized flesh; a nascent shiver resulted in the reappearance of the blanket and sheet that were quickly cocooned around the two of them as they lay crosswise on the rumpled bed.
His body humming with resonant pleasure, Martin settled Danny's head on his chest, his eyes resting on his fingers as they idly combed through the damp, dark hair. He wanted to say something to mark the moment but as so often happened, words failed him when he couldn't hide behind the skepticism that he chose as protection against a disappointing world. Danny Taylor had seen past that façade—had blown right through it, actually. More importantly, he'd let down his own considerable walls and Martin knew instinctively how rare a gift that was—and he'd almost thrown it away over a misunderstanding based on idiotic pride.
He felt Danny's inhalations lengthen into slumber and he sighed inwardly; the words, if he could find them, would have to wait.
A backfiring car penetrated Danny's light sleep and he awakened abruptly. Before he knew where he exactly was, he registered exactly who he was with and a grin of immeasurable joy broke across his face. He remembered falling asleep to the lulling stroke of Martin's fingers, happier than he'd been in a long time. Even as his body demanded sleep, his mind had been striving to hang on to the feeling, but the temptation had been too much and he'd surrendered reluctantly, even though he knew Martin remained awake.
Now Martin lay deeply asleep beside him. They were still strewn across the bed in a tangle of limbs, but sleep had separated them enough so that Danny was able to lift his head and lean on his hand in much the same way as he'd done when he'd awakened Martin earlier. With no thought of a repeat performance, Danny contented himself with gazing down on the sleeping man next to him, his face barely discernible in the dark. Danny's imagination filled in the blanks, remembering other times when he'd watched Martin sleeping after they'd made love. A face that was naturally youthful softened even further, revealing the openness he fought so hard to hide. Danny never stopped respecting the fellow agent he worked with, but it was the vulnerable man inside that he'd fallen in love with.
It wasn't hard to admit that to himself anymore; the misery they'd both recently experienced bespoke of something much more complicated than mere affection and mutual attraction. Danny's fervent admission of his need to be a refuge for Martin had taken him by surprise and he wasn't sure Martin understood the extent of that need, either. It was something that was going to have to play out between them over time—if they didn't manage to screw things up again.
He stifled a yawn against the back of his hand and blinked away the encroaching sleepiness. Work was only a few hours away and his body was demanding that he give in to its need for rest, but Danny was reluctant to let go of the night. Laying down against Martin's shoulder, he tried not think of the future or the damage they could still inflict upon each other. There were unsaid things between him and Martin Fitzgerald, words that for all that they remained unspoken, were no less true.
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