i will show you fear

NO MORE UPDATES HERE

2008-10-24T06:55:39Z

Due to an impatience with logging in and logging out and logging in again just to post one piece of fan fiction, I am leaving this journal as an archive and will be posting at incapacities from now on. If you want to see future posts by me, join/watch that community.

Thanks for the support everyone ♥

incapacities

Without A Trace | Danny/Martin pre-slash | get him eat him

2008-10-04T08:42:05Z

Title: get him eat him
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor & Martin Fitzgerald (pre-slash)
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, no warnings
Theme & Community: October 4th 2008: where the wild things are, 31_days
Words: ~1300
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: AUs are becoming a late love of mine, so there may be a Martin the anal-retentive banker's son and Danny the member of the Apple Dumpling Bandits Cowboy!AU coming soon. Just a fair warning.

Also, though I have read some spoilers for the latest season, I have no idea what is really going on and have not seen any episodes myself. As such, this is pretty much not current to anything going on in recent canon.

When he hits his head on the pavement, he permits himself a moment to marvel at how surreal everything is when your brain is bruised and probably not working right. Colours switch between being too vivid and turning dull like day-old dishwater, what looks like to be transparent people wander around his line of vision and look down upon him with pity sick and solid in their eyes, and a penguin wearing a top hat bares non-existent teeth at him before taking a sip from a china teacup.

But then everything swoops and dips, he's being pulled up through one or two or three of those ghostly people with opaque eyeballs reflecting feelings, and there is worried glance from Danny ducking down to peer upwards, bent at the knees and holding onto a woozy him to keep his balance.

He tries to make a mental note as his legs give out and they both topple over, him backwards again but with one heavy Cuban sprawled out over him to make things different this time, but he gives up after the second try.

He simply doesn't remember how to form proper thought, and he looks over at the penguin through see-through shoes and trouser legs, who is watching their struggles coldly with one wing curled around an elegant little white cup.

Danny sees Martin enter the bullpen, head down and movements sluggish as he gets to his chair and desk eventually then slumps down. He watches as his partner places each hand on the desk, bracketing his keyboard, and stares at the screensaver for his computer for a long minute or two or three.

Then one hand slowly raises up and falls down onto the mouse, and everything is normal again, movements no longer sluggish and work being done at an exceptional clip.

Danny sees Martin do this every day for three months, and doesn't say a word. After all, it isn't his business, and contrary to popular belief he does know when it is crucial to keep his nose out of the problems of others. He may be loud and boisterous and might be to personal space what Genghis Khan was to Asia, but he can pay attention to limits when he needs to.

He has a feeling if he told anyone this, they would laugh at him.

He wakes up to this little nagging stabbing pain in the heel of his hand, and he can't for the life of him figure out what it is. Close examination yielded no splinters or bruises or aberration of any sort, but he kept looking and was late leaving for work as a result. He kept peering at his hand in the subway, much to the horror of he fellow passengers, and he nearly missed his stop, in turn almost riding all the way to Brooklyn.

When Danny looks at him oddly--well, everyone is looking at him weird but since Special Agent Taylor is sitting right across from him he's the one he notices--he stops subtly rubbing the spot on his hand on the edge of the conference table and pretends to look really closely at the file in front of him.

Forty year old man, balding and actively trying to find a cure for it, disappeared right after an anime convention that he dropped his teenage son off at. He pressed a corner of a ragged thumbnail into the small section that hurts, and the pressure relieves just a bit. He presses harder, knows that it will leave an indentation plus bruise, but he figures he can say that he banged his hand on something earlier.

A fingernail shaped something. Right.

"Are you okay?" Danny asks when they get into the lift, luckily no one else but them inside. Jack had given him a look when he said who was assigned with who, as if to say 'You've been taking care of him since the incident, keep at it,' and he knew that it meant he was supposed to figure out what was the current problem with one Martin Fitzgerald.

Martin looks at him askance, probably suspicious as hell but too polite to be more obvious about it, and then moves forward when the lift stops at the garage level. "I'm fine."

Okay, so no proclamations that he will be throwing himself in front of a train anytime soon. Good, his job is half done. He uses the remote to unlock an SUV and heads towards the driver-side, keeping one eye on Martin doing the mirror-image of his motions through the windows of the vehicle.

They get in, Danny starts the engine, and he puts his hand on the gearshift. Stops, looks over at Martin's hands to see the finger digging into the hand, and says, "Are you always like this now?"

That makes the younger man start a little, pull his hands away from each other to casually drop to his sides, then looks at him as he grins. Annoyance reflects at him, and Martin says through grit teeth, "Yes."

Danny puts the car into reverse, and keeps the grin on his face right until they get to the possible witness to interview.

They get a lead, phone it in, then start back to the office to collaborate and work with the others. Martin moves his thumbnail over the indentation and yes that there is a bruise yes sir, but resists pushing in. After all, He is watching.

No, not God, though he’s pretty sure that’s happening too, but Danny. The guy sitting next to him asking innocent questions but looking evil all the while. They guy who makes pointed glances at his hands just to check on their current actions, then smiles that little smile that looks so freaking smug he just wants to hit it smear it kiss it off.

What?

He doesn’t remember much of that incident, the time he was hit over the head with a bat and went down like a rock, then apparently started to babble about plotting penguins and how people needed to take their vitamins so that they’d stop being so see-through. There was some discussion as he recovered in the hospital about head trauma and permanent damage, but it never led anywhere because that would be awful for a Fitzgerald to contemplate, and he got a reprieve.

Times like these, however, and he wondered if Danny remembered every word, and kept them on replay in his head whenever he had to spend time with him. Just to keep perspective that his partner and sometimes friend is possibly loony, and needs to not dig fingernails into flesh as a nervous tick.

He slides his gaze over to the side, looking at Danny from the corner of his eyes. It hurts, makes his head throb a little, but outright glaring would prompt talking, and he doesn’t want talking. He wants to figure this out so it will stop, and everything can get back to normal.

He’s pretty sure Danny didn’t watch him this much before.

They get to the building with no incidents, and only a small amount of sniping between them. Danny finds himself disappointed just a little, because his only source of entertainment right now is Martin’s suffering, and though he admits he loves the guy just a little, the way he fidgets and bitches about the most stupid of things is better than sliced bread.

“I never discovered toast,” he says out loud as he pulls into a parking spot.

Martin says nothing to him until the engine goes dead and the doors unlock, and he unbuckles his seatbelt as he tosses back, “How horrible your life must be.”

He gets out of the car, watches Martin through the windows as they both move down to the rear of the car to head towards the lift, and grins widely when their eyes meet.

Slight glower mixed with amusement is what meets him as he hits the button with his elbow, and yeah, Martin will be okay.

“It’s eternal suffering, man.”

Without A Trace | Martin/Danny | take love easy

2008-09-15T04:41:06Z

Title: take love easy
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Martin Fitzgerald/Danny Taylor
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: FRAO, cos I totally porned here.
Theme & Community: 12. Amity [Lovehatehero], Disc 01 Vans Warped Tour 2007 Compilation, album_mix (05/50)
Words: 382
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Presses the heel of his palm into the jut of a hip, holding down a writhing man just so he can hollow his cheeks and pull out his soul with his mouth. Breath in through his nose, flatten his tongue on the underside, let the barest hint of teeth scrape against pulsing flesh, and oh here it comes good thing the gag reflex can be conquered.

He removes his hand from the jut of a hip, from the edge of bone that pulls skin tight on Danny, and sees a bruise begin to form. Ignores the softening and the quivering to lean over and touch lips to this mark, just lightly enough to apologise but not hard enough to feel it through the haze.

And Danny is indeed in a haze, for his chanting and praying and babbling in a variety of languages has slowed, but not stopped. At that first touch of tongue to skin, his eyes rolled back, and he's not come back to himself yet.

He removes his mouth from his partner's skin and looks up past salt-sweat-slick and listens, quirks his head to one side, and lets his lips tug into a smile. How cliché is it, to wreck a man who never shuts up with his clothes on, who never shuts up with his clothes off either. Very expected, but amusing nonetheless.

"Martin, Martin, Martin," the older man breathes, trying to focus but not managing it quite yet.

He says nothing, just crawls up the length of one Danny Taylor's body, and settles in close. Decides to smother the chants and moans and prayers to a higher power with his mouth open and tongue seeking, let him taste seed and soul still lingering and swirled with spit.

Pulls away to breathe a little--not a lot, only a little please--and examines flushed face and bright eyes. Waits for Danny to focus his sight on him and him alone, waits some more for thought to enter, then breathes out and in and out when a smile ruins that flushed face and makes it into something just slightly happy and a lot more affectionate than it is safe.

He feels himself return the smile, pound and parcel of adoration to match in equal strengths, and leans in again to taste.

Cowboy Bebop | comforts heaped upon me

2008-09-13T08:01:56Z

Title: comforts heaped upon me
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Faye Valentine, Spike Spiegel, Jet Black
Fandom: Cowboy Bebop
Rating & Warnings: PG
Theme & Community: 14. I'm Not Dead, Disc 01, 2007 Warped Tour Compilation, album_mix (04/50), 21. the heart of a gypsy, 52_flavours (04/52)
Words: ~1000
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Okay, so I'm trying to write het!fic again, basically because I am now being pestered to do so. And instead, I ended up with gen!fic, but whatever, it isn't homoerotic and that should appease or else I'll start to write Bible slash for spite. And yes, in a probable rut with the straight slash ahaha all the time, but when I'm entirely focused on J2 RPS whenever I have the time to read anything, it's sort of hard ahaha again to write anything but. (and as an aside, I want to tie up and give lots of tongue kisses to RPS in general, because wow fandom that almost entirely consist of porn! It's a little scary around the edges, but like crack cocaine, once it's got you, it's got you, brain damage or no.)

Okay, so she has her cancer sticks and she has her dignity, but she hasn't got money and she hasn't got a destination. She can stand there and deny it all she wants, scream and stomp and act like an overgrown toddler (even though she is in fact older than them all), but it won't change those few facts into something like fiction where she can write her own story and just get on with it.

Jet stands there, looking down at her slumped posture with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression speaking volumes. All that and more, just grow up Faye Valentine. And it rings through the air and batters her eardrums, even though he hasn't said a word, and she's said far too many.

"We're going to pick him up," he says, voice rusty from lack of use. "You can leave now if you don't want to see him."

He walks away from her, her just sitting there on the cold metal floor of the Bebop. Shoulders shake in either laughter or hysteria, she hasn't figured out which, and she silently falls apart.

It's a clear day on Mars, environmental dome creating picture perfect weather for picnics and blankets and baskets filled with synthetic food to be consumed by people who've never tasted the real thing. Birds fly over the port, never seen the real habitat for them, but they cry and screech and shit like the ones from home so they still count as 'fucking birds' as opposed to 'oh the poor things they're so fake and twisted'.

Faye would rather see herself as fake and twisted, but that would be moping, and she isn't here to mope. She's here to watch the ship while Jet flies off like a gunslinger in those old Westerns that her father let her watch when she was a child, going to save the other gunslinger who got shot up by those Indians and held hostage in a tepee. And then she laughs a little, because Spike in a tepee is one of the most hilarious things she's ever thought of, and she should really remember that for future moments that are sure to come.

There is never a period of time where Spike wouldn't annoy her, and even though he's been dead for a year, she doubts this will change much.

The water lapping at the side of the ship provides a soothing background noise while she watches burly men break weak men's knees for not paying a debt on time, and the merchants unload their wares onto the dock to transfer to shops and warehouses within the hour. This is all monotonous, a life that isn't bounty hunting and more like going through the motions while waiting for something to happen.

The hammerhead is on the horizon, and oh, there's something happening right there. Smells like content for the next chapter in their adventure, but really, it's just making things turn back into what they were.

She feels a little relieved by this, and just a little sad as well.

Spike hasn't said a word to her, and it just might make her snap soon. Her fingernails have already left many crescent-shaped imprints on her palms from clenching fingers and digging in bits of dead protein, and her jaw aches from all the grinding her teeth are doing. But still, she says a few things, softly and apprehensively, and when he doesn't reply she leaves his immediate vicinity and bites down yet another scream.

Since when has he had the right to ignore her? Since he died? Death doesn't excuse asshole antics, and it angers in a way that only Spike Spiegel could. The urge to kill him in his sleep is back in full force, and she wonders if unscrewing the top of the salt dispenser will make it abate a little.

Jet walks into the common room one day and loudly pronounces that since they have a surplus of funds right now, they're going to Earth to look for Ed and Ein. This statement is followed by a cough and a blush and a stammer, because Jet doesn't like everyone knowing how much he loves the kid, and him saying that he plans on looking for her sort of lets that secret out of the bag.

Faye sits and watches Spike, waits for his reaction because if he protests she's going to shoot him. Probably in a foot, but she'll shoot him nonetheless.

Spike just sort of shrugs, scratches at his belly, and closes his eyes. Murmurs around a cigarette, "Fine," and dozes off.

Jet leaves, she sits there, and the compulsion to kill him is still strong. So she leans over and tweaks his foot, right at the toe and right where it's propped up on the table.

He opens an eye a crack and looks at her, then closes it again.

She pokes at his foot again, hard enough to knock it from it's perch, and grins at him even though he can't see her through closed eyes. Waits until he puts his feet back onto the table, then wraps her fingers around his ankle and digs fingernails through the fabric of his trousers.

It's three weeks before they find Edward and Ein, both a little hungry around the edges but still bright and bubbly and ready for space travel. Spike still isn't speaking to her, but now it's because she attacks his ankles to hear him scream at her, and he's in a constant mood of sulk and gimp, where he gets to glare at her from under his eyebrows and limp everywhere.

Ed and Jet's familial reunion is cute enough to rot her teeth, so she crouches down and scratches the dog between the ears and just smiles to herself, because this is things going back to the way they were, and yeah, new content for new chapter, but still the same old story with the same lines and the same paragraphs and the same full stops that always lead to the next segment.

Spike stands next to her and grumbles something about hating children and animals, and she reaches for him without even thinking, fingers flexing and bright smile enough to blind.

Tsubasa RC | Kurogane/Fai | moira mathematics

2008-09-07T08:07:34Z

Title: moira mathematics
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Kurogane/Fai
Fandom: Tsubasa RESERVoir CHRoNiCLE
Rating & Warnings: NC-17, boysex ♥
Theme & Community: 04. Confined [As I Lay Dying], Disc 01 2007 Warped Tour Compilation, album_mix (3/50) & for sephiraprincess (requested here)
Words: 211
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Contains spoilers for the manga up to Chapitre 169, cos I've not read much farther past that point.

Kittenish tongue lapping at the base of his spine wakes him, and he grabs a handful of blonde hair and broken smiles without even opening his eyes. The ghost of pain from the missing limb, replaced by technology and yet still not quite feeling right moves of its own accord, gripping thin wrist and pulling long body up and over and around to face him.

He opens his eyes, looks right into amber gaze that in turn sees right through him.

Mechanical arm with attached mechanical hand moves of its own accord once more, pressing down and spreading open and letting blood warm heat oh slide in. He feels a magician gasp and keen, he feels himself swear and shudder, and sweat-slick skin repeats and repeats and repeats the same sensations.

Fai threads his fingers through Kurogane's hair, nuzzles the junction of neck and shoulder, and breathes in, spreading legs wider to accommodate something more. Kurogane answers with pressing in harder, faster, with a bite of teeth on collarbone and bruising grip on thighs.

Before it is over, fever-pitch and cotton-mouth notwithstanding, he growls at him, "We're too weak for this."

After it is over, shaky breath and trembling to the aftershocks yes please, he answers him, "No, we're too strong."

Storm Hawks | Dark Ace/Aerrow | i called my battle-breaking men

2008-09-07T07:31:03Z

Title: i called my battle-breaking men
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Aerrow/Dark Ace
Fandom: Storm Hawks
Rating & Warnings: R, suggestive themes & implied violence
Theme & Community: 14. Blood, MCR The Black Parade, album_mix (3/14) & 24. good night, 30_kisses (4/30)
Words: 810
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

The thump thump thump that beats a tattoo against his ribcage makes him hate the entire situation a little, just a bit. He wants to sneer at the man swerving towards him through the air, skimmer dodging other Sky Knights and yet still killing their rides with a careful swipe of energised blade as he jets past. He wants to scream, pitch a temper tantrum, flail his arms around his head to distract everyone from what is probably clear on his face and an open book for anyone who cares to look.

Instead he sits as still as he can, listens to the thump thump thump, and waits.

Glint of sharpened teeth and blackened irises focus in on him, and he knows he's been seen. Knows he's been caught. Knows that he might as well give it up right here, because oh god oh fuck he knows and that isn't a good thing.

His co-pilot makes them swoop through their own swatch of enemies, the opposite of good and yet so simple in the head he’d laugh if he weren’t freaked out by second to the Ruler of Cyclonia doing the exact same thing to his own side of the battle, the opposite of bad. And yet he still manages to match skimmer casualty to skimmer casualty, the air below his pathway littered with parachutes and smouldering metallic parts. Just. Like. Him.

He searches out black eyes as the forces retreat, and finds them laughing at his mimicry of technique. Laughter echoes across the emptying expanse of sky, not nice and a little evil and how it makes his skin crawl but still flush hot when that voice is doing something else entirely to him with a hum and an intake of breath.

The Cyclonian forces retreat to fight another day, and he sits on his skimmer and watches them go.

One thing he wonders when he's fingering himself in the shower with one hand and biting down on the soft flesh of junction between thumb and palm of the other, if this is at all worth it. If sexualising his relationship with the man who killed his father, father's friends, too many allies to count, he wonders if opening his thighs with a moan and a lick is worth all of the pain in the end.

He sort of feels like a traitor, head of the new Storm Hawks but babbling his loyalty to long fingers twisting through him, warm palm slicked with spit working him open and ready for everything else. He doesn't spill secrets, he's sure he doesn't, but that won't stop him from going blind a little in the post-coitus phase and thus not noticing the poking around that civilisation's enemy is sure to do while his boy toy tries to recover.

But the water is warm, and he gasps as quietly as possible when his not-quite-as-long fingers reach a certain place that makes him see stars, and all doubts are forgotten in a spine-numbing burst of himself against the shower's wall.

Atmos is at its worst in the night, crawling with filth that cannot be scrubbed clean no matter what action the council takes. There has to be an underbelly to every city and government and terra, and this is the golden child's version of the concept, all criminal element mixed with the depravity of the righteous.

He crawls through the streets, feeling a bit criminal himself, looking for the signs that will let him know which street to turn down, which doorway to walk through, which alleyway to look for him in. Subtle signs, like a shivering with fear pickpocket sitting at the side of the road, eyes darting to the shadows to see if there is another monster lurking inside. A prostitute silenced with shock, standing on her street corner without bothering to pose and not really seeing anything except that image in her minds eye. An emptied out tavern, devoid of life but with still-half full glasses littered across the tables.

Aerrow finds him breathing in on a cigarillo, exhaling around curved lips and glittering eyes, and he thinks to himself that maybe if he brings a knife or something he might make his country proud one of these days. That maybe if he can kill this man in front of him, he might save his conscience some pain and strain if he ends all of this right now with a twist of a blade and a taste of shock.

And then the Dark Ace reaches for him, all smoke and teeth and bone and warmth, and he looses the line of thought while breathing in the air from his enemy’s mouth. Moist breath tasting of rolling paper and illegal leaf, tongue pushing thought down his throat to be digested by stomach acid, and he loosens, forgets, just for a moment more.

[Original] {01/30} they will not hush

2008-09-02T05:09:11Z

Title: they will not hush
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Random person, monstrous dog beast
Fandom: Original
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, cos I said so
Theme & Community: September 1, 2008: say it again, 31_days
Number: 01/30
Claimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, me and no one else. By reading this you acknowledge the ownership that I have upon this, and honour it by not fucking copying it in any way, shape or form.

Note: A friend gave me Juno Reactor's Labyrinth album, and when the third track came on, I just started writing. So here, have a giant with me, and know that this on loop makes me think of things thundering after random people in the darkness. Yeah, I'm that special ♥

The soles of his boots slapped the stonework hard, fighting to grip the slick rock and mortar through the coating of slime and ick that covered everything down this far into the tunnels. His breathing sounded like the north winds, his lungs rattling about his ribcage with every ragged intake as he ran and ran and ran, turning corners and lunging through doorways and desperately hoping that he is going on automatic and is not, in fact, coming full circle.

His heart pounded in time with every step, every frantic lunge for the next small space to squirm through to try and put as much distance between himself and that thing. The rasp of his breathing added another layer, and as he crawled on hands and knees to get through a connector duct to the next tunnel over, he manages one coherent thought:

This must be how it finds me.

He gets to the end of the duct, slides out and lands with a slick twist that manages to keep him on his feet and peering into the darkness. The blood boiling throughout his veins slows imperceptibly, and he can feel it as it goes, taking the adrenaline with it. Curses softly, rubs his muddied palm on the equally soiled trouser leg, then rummages through a pocket while still looking around him for danger.

The package of pills smells sickly sweet when he opens it, all plastic and cotton suffocating the fructose syrup coating of those little capsules. Two are removed from the packet, popped into his open mouth, and they taste like smoothed over chalk on his tongue.

He swallows, stills himself to wait for the rush, breathes in and out and in again.

Sometimes the lack of adrenaline, that little rush of blood to the head that keeps him going, it's a good thing. Because if he was still running, panting and stressed and freaked out beyond all logical thought, he wouldn't hear the clicking of claws sharply echoing somewhere further down the tunnel, or the snuffling of three noses as they sniff out the trail.

He turns and runs from the yips it makes when it finds him, the pills not absorbed yet and he knows that it is dangerous to get the adrenals pumping before the substance has been absorbed but he has no choice now does he, and he runs faster when the answering barks sound closer than ever.

It isn't too far behind him, and he scrabbles up the wall hoping he has the correct one and the feather is there for his personal usage. Because he needs to get out of here, he doubts if anyone would begrudge him that, and the slobbering beast behind him with too many eyes and not enough restraint is going to eat him if he doesn't get away now.

He reaches the top, literally holding on by fingernails and the little hooks he had installed on the toes of his boots wedged deep into the grooves of the brick, and a little growl drifts up from below him.

Turns his head to look, sees the three sets of eyes glowing red in the darkness, the glint of shiny black fur and yellow-tinted teeth giving form to the mass from the sparse light his eyes can make use of.

One bark--the middle head, it seems to be the brains of the operation--and front paws lift up to brace itself on the wall, raise up to standing height to it is so much closer to him and the fleshy parts known as his body. He drags his legs up, letting little chips of brick and mortar fall down onto the beast, and he lets out one shaky breath.

The middle head barks then growls, the other two joining in to form a barbershop threesome of evil mutts from hell show tunes, and it jumps a little like a puppy trying to get at a dog treat. He tenses even more than he thought was possible, digs the toes of his boots in as far as they can go, and forces another breath.

When all three sets of eyes blink simultaneously, the six dots of red disappear for just one instant, he uses his chance and vaults over the wall, lands in a crouch on the other side, and shoves off with feet and hands from the ground to start running again.

He swerves around a corner, hears the crumbling of something hard behind him and the angry barking of the monster. He jumps over a canal that houses sewage and manages to not fall but keep going, and the click clack click clack of scrambling feet get closer and closer.

A dim light is ahead, to his left, and he lunges through the gate and up the steps as hot breath and the acidic burn of something wet slops over his shoulder. Runs until he's across the street and illuminated by not only the olde fashioned street lamps of this particular district, but the moon peeking through sky scrapers as well over the empty street.

Three sets of eyes stare at him from the darkness of the entrance to the tunnels, growl and snap teeth at him but do not venture out of its safe haven.

He dimly remembers the entry for it, in training and later for brush-up during his exam; Cerberus: Three Headed Dog of Hell, minion of Pluto, guardian to the gates of the underworld, likes to use human limbs as chew toys and drink the corporeal substance of damned souls for water. Saliva highly caustic, do not mistake battle plans for Hydra (page 407.b) for this creature, best run away than try to fight it off.

It didn't mention the fact that the beast doesn't like moonlight, and when the sun is up Pluto has it crated so that it doesn't run amuck and get him another citation for animal neglect.

He leans against the lamp pole, slides down until he's sitting on the cold pavement with his legs sprawled in front of him. Doesn't take his eyes off of the hulking mass of hate and dog spit lurking not too far away, breathes in and out and in again.

Pulls out the amulet that was shoved haphazardly into his pocket not an hour before, and waves it at the beast and grins. Calls out softly at it, "Nah nah nah nah, nah," and feels delicious glee at the answering bark from what is probably the middle head again.

He lets his head fall back against the metal as he shoves it back into his pocket, and looks up at the sky peeking out past the confining structures made of sheet metal and glass. Closes his eyes, and rests for a moment.

Pickup isn't for another two hours, and he needs the rest.

[Without A Trace] {31/31} (Danny/Martin) most irreverent interpolation

2008-08-31T14:20:02Z

Title: most irreverent interpolation
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald, Samantha Spade, Jack Malone, Viviane Johnson
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: R, potentially disturbing images concerning the abuse of a child.
Theme & Community: August 31 08, Forget whatever I said, 31_days
Number: 31/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title taken from random Abraham Merritt texts (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took which qoute).

And that's it. I've posted once a day for the entire month, using themes provided by 31_days, and managing in the end a grand total of 35800 words for the Without A Trace fandom. Beers all around ♥

His hands and wrists are slick with shit, the metaphorical and the literal. He tries not to wretch, holding the child close to his chest, feeling her dribble bile out of a blackened mouth and past salt-crusted skin. She's crying, new tears following the same path as before, tracks starting from the corners of her eyes and zigzagging down to end at her jaw.

He carries her roughly, knowing this will probably traumatise her more, but he doesn't care and just keeps going, following Martin's back garbed in ruined fabric, stark white streaked with the same substance on his fingers, leading him to the surface like a reeking beacon.

Samantha's voice carries down the tunnels, calling "Martin, Danny, is she all right?" and echoing around their ears in a bombardment of sound. The high-pitched tinge to her voice makes his ears want to bleed, just rupture and start to pour out red blood cells and white blood cells and maybe some spinal fluid as well. He winces along with the girl, her ruined mouth twisting just so, mirroring his expression as best as she can.

And in the dim light, ignoring Martin's soft assurances that they she's fine, bouncing right back at the team near the entrance in the same fashion as Samantha Spade's query, he can see Martin's shoulders sag, his own feet falter, and the wide-eyed yet steady gaze of their most recent case in his arms.

Her lips part, show crusted black where her insides should be, and he tries to smile back.

Viviane is authoritative whenever Jack is unable to be, and sometimes when he is perfectly capable of doing his own job. Now is one of the latter, and their real boss stands there with his jowls affixed in a scowl while watching his most senior agent run things like she had his position in the team, and he had hers.

No one mentions this shift in dynamic, the reasons for his guilt of why she does this every so often, but Samantha offers him a smile as she walks past, and Danny holds onto the girl like she will crumble into dust if he lets her go. Watches Jack in his lowered position, bowing to the alpha dog, and then turns to Martin, eyebrows raised.

Martin is watching him back, or more in focus, Danny's fingers wrapped bone white around the muddied girl, then looks up at his face. Tilts head just so, unspoken question that he is welcome to ignore if he really feels the need to, and he takes him up on that offer like always, turning away.

Samantha walks up to Martin, says something to him in a lowered tone right next to his ear. Martin nods in response, uncrosses his arms, follows her off to the side where the headquarters are set up.

Danny forces his grip to relax on the girl's arms, and when the medic finally wades through the excess that they had to drain just so he and Martin could get down there, he hands her over without really even thinking about it.

Turns his head to watch Martin speak to three techs at once explaining some sort of thing to find the next missing person, takes in the look of warmth that Samantha gives the side of the man's head. Feels anger boil up in the pit of his belly, grits his teeth and clenches his fingers, this time into fists, and starts to get away from there, heading in the opposite direction.

Having a baby might have soothed Special Agent Spade down a bit, made her more warm towards her former boyfriends and lovers, but it in turn has made Special Agent Taylor one hate filled machine that spits fire whenever he's alone, just to chase away the shadows.

And they both know it, too.

It takes one long hour in the locker room of the Bureau’s building to get the top coat off, and he longs for a bar of lava soap and the rough side of a kitchen sponge, because that is what it will take to remove the other five. He feels grimy and sticky and the taint has sunk into his skin where it will fester and never be removed, and he grimaces to himself as he pulls on clean clothing.

As if detergent ever did anything to this sort of filth, in the end.

Martin walks out from his own stall, towel riding low on his hips and only barely knotted to stay wrapped. The various scars that could only have come from this job and this job alone are dull red and greyish white, depending on age, order, and how well he was stitched together afterwards, are stark across his skin. They fluctuate a little, move only a bit, as muscles move underneath his skin to accommodate the walking and putting on his own clean clothes sort of actions.

Special Agent Fitzgerald notices Danny watching, stares back at him with a level look, then tilts his head in silent question again. An invitation to say something, work it out in sound instead of silence, with someone instead of by himself.

He turns away to finish buttoning his shirt, and then almost flees from the room.

Jack is back in charge again, Viviane standing very still and very quiet beside him, like a statue that watches over the gates when the warriors are away at war. Danny supposes that is probably what she is, the babysitter for this team of broken people whenever Jack isn't there to glue them together, and sometimes when he is but just isn't up to it.

Boss Malone congratulates them, lingers on Danny and Martin with his gaze while speaking of fast thinking and quick action when it came to finding and rescuing the girl. Informs them all that the case has been handed over to Special Victims to pursue, find the man who did this to her and bring him to justice. Says, "And if any of you want to track the progress of this, the case number is 45T28AQ."

No one writes down the information, they all just nod and turn back to their desks. There are reports to write, detailing every gruesome fact for the record of finding a tattered girl buried deep in a sealed sewage drain, sobbing with infection and certain in her six year old psyche that she was going to die.

Danny's hands used to shake after cases like these, but now they are steady as he completes his paperwork, staples it together, leaves it on Jack's desk. He has no ill reaction whatsoever, besides the little extra work his throat has to do, swallowing down the small bit of bile that comes up as when he gets back home after shift is over, makes him gag and shiver and screw his eyes shut to keep it all away.

He doesn't know what wakes him up at twenty past four that morning, but he shifts and he stands and he pulls on jeans and a sweater, shoves his feet into boots without bothering to lace them and grabs his keys and his wallet from the sideboard. Hails a taxi that miraculously drives by, gives it an Upside address, pays the fare with a twenty and a ten.

Crawls into the lift, knocks on the door, isn't surprised to find Martin awake and still wearing his suit, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and looking haggard, worn down, just this side of hopeless.

Martin tilts his head again, giving the same offer from so many times before.

He breathes in, breathes out, shoves his hands into his pockets, and says, "Hey, want to talk?"

Martin steps back to let him inside, and he slowly enters while forcing himself to remember to breathe.

[Without A Trace] {30/31} (Danny/Martin) rhythmic flashing of fire-flies

2008-08-30T14:32:09Z

Title: rhythmic flashing of fire-flies
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Theme & Community: August 30th 08, beLIEve, 31_days
Number: 30/31 for comm, 3/? for story.
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from The Metal Monster by Abraham Merritt. Part of a series, titled in its own luminescence. Segment three of three (3/3), complete and fully posted as of now, awaiting possible postscript from either tomorrow or sometime during September. Entry tag for this story here.

1 | 2 | 3 (postscript pending)

I intended to write in porn for this, but because of various reasons that I won't bother to regale you all with, I can say with great conviction that porn for this certain story will have to wait for another instalment. So a fourth bit will be forthcoming, either for tomorrow's final entry for the month, or something that will be written sometime next month. Sorry, really I am.

The call comes during one of his mind trips, stumbling through that desert and wondering if he could brighten up the place a bit with some flowers, maybe a set of exotic-print curtains. He hears the first ring, jerks upwards and out of his safe place, and he has his cell in his hand by the second ring and is answering it before the third.

Martin's voice makes all sorts of things happen to his innards, and the request intensifies them to the degree that when he swings his legs over the edge of the sofa so that he can sit up straight, he knocks over random things on his coffee table. He doesn't notice, though, because Martin Fitzgerald is not too far from his flat and asking for sanctuary and he is completely upset by this.

He probably would be more inclined to be gleeful, delirious with joy even, but this means he has to look and not touch, not lean in and breath the same air because if he does inside his own flat he might be inclined to do something else a little more risky. Like kiss Martin.

Or go down on him.

A dozen scenarios flash through his mind as he curses at his luck and both of their stupidity, and he says in an authoritative tone, "Stay there," before flipping the phone closed and burying his head in his hands for a moment.

And then the need to keen and hide passes, and he runs out of his flat at full speed, gets down the street and down another until he gets to the general area. Swings his head left and right to see if he can see him, muttering nonsense to himself just to calm down as he searches.

He finally sees Martin leaning against a payphone, lobbing his cell phone in one hand while staring down a group of teenagers located down the street a ways. The picture it makes causes laughter to well up his throat, fight valiantly to get out into the atmosphere, and of course he swallows it down. If he starts to laugh now he'll get hysterical, and not the good kind, but the bad kind. The kind where he might just not stop until he gets slapped by a concerned Martin, and he just knows he'd hit him back for it and that wouldn't do for their friendship in the long-run.

Or maybe it would help, because Martin is still leaning there, looking like something out of a fifties street flick, maybe a propaganda film that expands on the horrific consequences of using reefer and wearing leather jackets and getting into fights outside the malt shop.

A film of which always has a staring contest midway through, and as he comes up to Martin, the idiot wearing only a fucking zip-up sweatshirt and no shirt underneath and oh god Danny is going to have a stroke right here and now at the glimpse of skin that the unintentionally hiked-up hem shows off. Pale and there and he knows his step just faltered a bit but Martin isn't looking so hopefully that will go unnoticed.

Finally Special Agent Fitzgerald looks in his direction, and shoves out of his reclining position, raises a hand in greeting and in turn causes the hem of the sweatshirt to go even higher, enough to expose muscled abdomen slashed with scars. He manages to not stare, he’s sure he isn’t staring, especially now that he’s getting close enough to say something, but he must have failed because that grin on Martin’s face is not good for him and his already perilous mental status.

“Yeah,” Martin says, spreading his arms wide as if to show off his sloppiness of outerwear. “Not exactly work uniform is it?”

Danny smiles, feels his lips stretch back tight in the automatic motion that really has no feeling behind it except the physical sensation, and does his best eyebrow quirk. “Yeah, Jack would fire you on the spot if you came in wearing that.”

Now they are both grinning, him freaked out and fidgeting and Martin looking at him with blank eyes and a grin that oddly looks like it is on a skull. He’s never thought about it before--okay, he has, he just hasn’t admitted it until now--but when Martin gets like this he looks rather skeletal standing there, wearing inappropriate clothing for the climate and looking up at Danny like he might almost trust him if he’s given enough reason to.

So he gestures for the younger man to follow him, which he does, and he manages to send a glare over his shoulder at the kids watching. They know him, know he’s an FBI Agent, and he wants to make sure they don’t follow them and make trouble.

Martin falls into step beside him, eyes straight ahead and ignoring his attempts to protect them both, and he feels very confused by everything.

So. He was three blocks away. Close enough for him to make true on his promise, and give up this fleeing from his problems business. He feels slightly saddened by this, because he’s a stickler for zero change in life and here he is having to follow through on a pact made with himself to do exactly what he hates, but he’ll mourn for his running shoes later.

Besides, what is this he is doing right now, if it isn’t one major change the size of a small country? Or a large country, even. A continent. Yeah, that sounds right. A continent. Those are fucking huge.

Danny’s flat is on the third floor, and they crawl up the stairwell at a snails pace with one talking and gesturing and trying to fill in the awkwardness with panicked rambling, and him following one step behind and trying to remember why he is doing this right now right here and with this man.

Oh. Right. Parental issues.

They get inside, and he shivers as the blast of warmth heats through his clothing in no time at all. He had started sweating again during the walk up, and he is now getting that odd chilled feeling that comes from being overheated but not so hot that he would be inclined to seek a cooler climate. He watches Danny dart around the room, picking up things and tidying up and he knows he’s grinning at his sometimes partner but this whole thing is too bizarre, and the need to make the flat acceptable for guests is just the topping on the metaphorical cake.

Danny finishes, throws himself onto the sofa and then pauses, looks up at him and waves his hand. “You can sit if you want, unless you’re one of those people who sleepwalk.”

He walks over, slowly moves downwards into a sitting position on the worn cushions, and feels his muscles jump from the exertion as he relaxes. A sigh of relief is on his lips, but he manages to turn it into a heavy exhalation instead of something that could be misconstrued as something.. else.

Drops his head against the back of the sofa, and says to the ceiling, “What if I am?”

“What if you’re what?” Danny asks, shifting his weight and he can feel the give in the springs. It would be so easy to just go limp completely, maybe roll his entire body in Special Agent Taylor’s direction; and wherever that interesting thought came from, he needs to figure out if he wants more during his time here or not, and he needs to figure it out now.

He tenses, looks over at Danny who is very resolutely not looking at him. No more thoughts like that, then. Says, “A sleepwalker.”

“Oh, then I’d have to take you to the church down the street and dump holy water on you,” Danny replies, still not looking at him, like he’d lose something if he did.

“Holy water,” he says, blinking.

Finally the man looks at him, and amusement is back in full force thank you God. “Yeah. Holy water.”

Martin falls asleep two hours after they get inside, slumped down sideways across the arm of his sofa. Danny still doesn't know why he decided to come over, why he bothered to call and use the friendship card when he could have just as easily called Samantha or Viviane. It sort of bothers him, because this is giving him the perfect opportunity to watch the younger man drop his guard, and he really needs to know why this is happening before he can determine what he should do next.

He watches for a while, counts the seconds between each breath like he did right after that damn Dornvald thing, examines the exposed skin from the partially unzipped hoodie and its infernal shoved up hemline. There is a picture-perfect view of the scar he had his hands on before it became one long line of traumatised tissue through otherwise smooth muscle and flesh, and his hands shake a little before he can stop himself.

He leans close, peers at the relaxed facial features that have Martin looking his actual age instead of some harried elder person trapped in a thirty-something man’s body. When his eyes are closed and mouth slack, the lines disappear and the dark circles lighten, and this is something Danny could get used to, really it is.

That thought causes him to jump a little, jump again straight to his feet, and slowly walk backwards, away from Martin and his skin and his breathing. His back hits the edge of the doorframe to his bedroom, and he slides inside the room and closes the door with a soft click.

Breathes in, breathes out, closes his eyes and shudders, then opens them and looks over at his bed.

He won't be getting any sleep tonight, but he might as well pretend.

The click is what wakes up Martin, so he groans a little and sits up. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep mid-sentence, really he hadn’t. Talking with his sometimes partner was sort of fun in a freaked out, what is this man on because he’s acting like he’s going to jump out of his skin any moment, kind of way. And the odd thing is, no matter how much they smiled at each other, they never managed to smile at the same time.

He looks around for Danny, notices the closed door, and lets his shoulders slump. Rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and scratches at the rough fabric of his hoodie. The crusted salt from his sweat on the fabric irritates his skin, so he looks down at it and tries to do his best glare. Then decides fuck it, and pulls it off over his head.

He throws it in the general direction of the closest corner of the room and the door opens, Danny walking out carrying a blanket who then catches sight of him and stops. He nods, leans back, says, “Hey, how long was I out?”

The older man has no reply, just stands there staring at him, wide eyed and slightly animal-looking. He notices that Danny’s hands are shaking, and realises that maybe he can continue to have those interesting thoughts, because this is certainly a new development, isn’t it? And so he cranes his neck, looks him directly in the eye, and raises his eyebrows.

Danny licks his lips, looks away. Holds out the blanket like its something contaminated, and waits.

I don’t like this, he thinks to himself, and he weighs the options in his mind. Do this, do that, what will get him the desired result, and not cause too much damage to their friendship at the same time? He blinks up at him, holds a hand up, but doesn’t take the blanket from Danny’s hand.

Special Agent Taylor looks confused, but he takes two steps closer and continues to hold it out. Sort of waves it at him as if to say, take it already, I want to leave and I can’t until you take it.

And Martins narrows his eyes at that wave, feels anger spike up his spine. Decides fine, he will take it, and does so. By grabbing Danny’s wrist and pulling him down, though; not that other, less physical, route.

Danny squawks as he goes down, landing awkwardly on top of Martin’s lap and tensing right before they collide. The blanket is dropped on the floor, forgotten as the larger man struggles to get away, and Martin holds on tight in what will probably turn out to be a bruising grip while Danny yells at him.

“Martin, what the hell?” Danny says, wiggling and kicking to try to right himself. Apparently, being sprawled over his partner’s lap isn’t something he is fond of at the moment. “Let go, ah, Martin, damnit!”

He knows that if this backfires he will never be able to speak to Danny again, but he thinks of the plane he is going to be on in the morning and thinks that it would be worth it just to do this. So he keeps his grip solid, shifts a knee up to tilt Danny backwards, and leans over his friend’s face.

Says, “Shut up.”

Danny stills with an expression of wide-eyed bewilderment, and he leans close to kiss him firmly. Just a solid pressing of mouth to mouth, keeping his own eyes open slightly to gauge the reaction.

And he’s glad he decided to do this, because Danny’s eyes slide closed, and the victory theme from one of those old video games he used to play starts to go on loop in his head. He presses closer, harder, and licks inside his friend’s mouth all in the span of three seconds, resisting the urge to hum the tune in the back of his throat. Especially when Danny kisses back, questing tongue and all.

Pulls away, smiles a little at Danny’s dazed expression. Says, “Don’t dump holy water on me.”

His friend’s eyes have a light in them, the same one that he sees occasionally spark and die out in the same expression, but this time it comes in and stays there. And then Danny grins wide, wraps an arm around Martin’s neck, and pulls close for another kiss.

He wakes up first, blinking up at his living room ceiling and wondering why the hell he’s laying spread-eagle and naked on the cold hard wood floor of his flat, but then Martin shifts next to him, and he remembers. All of the bite marks and bruises proceed to make themselves known at that moment, and he winces as he turns to his side to look his sometimes partner and marvel at how well he is sleeping.

The air feels cool on his skin, and he shivers a little as he moves, shoving himself closer to Martin and fully planning to tell the younger man off if he wakes up, asks him what he’s doing. He was completely violated on top of his coffee table not too long ago, and he deserves some body heat, damnit.

But Martin doesn’t wake up, entirely out of it as if he were a log and logs could be perfectly content in sleeping. Danny thinks that maybe Martin ran around a little too much to find his building than he initially admitted a few hours before, and as he presses close and hooks a leg over Martin’s prone form, he feels slightly angry at the entire situation.

Not because they managed to finally do something that he’s wanted to do ever since he found out that Martin had a mouth on him--approximately twenty minutes after he first met him, or so he recalls--but because his sometimes partner really needs to learn how to communicate better.

He presses as close as he can, and lets his head rest on the junction of Martin’s shoulder and neck. Closes his eyes, and feels himself relax. He doesn’t know if this is how they should ultimately wake up together, but he wants to take a chance on this, and so he does.

As he drifts off, he thinks that if this works out the way he hopes it will, he might just have to retire that whole escaping into his mind thing. Because getting jumped by Martin is a lot better, to be perfectly honest.

[Without A Trace] {29/31} (Danny/Martin) we were human atoms

2008-08-29T06:05:00Z

Title: in its own luminescence part ii: we were human atoms
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Theme & Community: August 29th 08, The aftertaste is gonna break your heart, 31_days
Number: 29/31 for comm, 2/3 for series
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from The Metal Monster by Abraham Merritt. Part of a series, titled in its own luminescence. Segment two of three (2/3), the last instalment of which will be posted over tomorrow. Entry tag for on-going story here.

1 | 2 | 3 (postscript pending)

Martin runs to quiet the murmurs in his head, and in turn, has been running quite a bit as of late.

He manages to go far, too, as far as the other end of the city sometimes, and once he found himself at the freeway entrance that leads to Jersey, so he knows that this has gotten a bit out of hand. He shouldn't be fleeing from his problems like this, cutting out everyone--co-workers and friends included with that family he supposes he calls his own--but it is oh so easy to just lace up his sneakers and pound the pavement into submission.

The unfortunate result is that when he finally stops, the doubts and insecurities and things he would really rather not put energy on become twice as loud, and he then has to deal with all of that coming up to bite him in the ass. It has always been like this, ever since he can remember, and though he suspects that one of the reasons he got addicted to the Percoset in the beginning is because there wasn't anything in his head making him nervous when those little pills passed his lips, he has managed to not fall down the hole to alcoholism or something like it to drown it all out.

He was close to it, once upon a time, but meeting Danny put a stop to that plan.

And when Danny became something he runs from as well, he doesn't know, but now he runs twice as hard to ignore the slightly dazed looks the older man gives him every now and again, saying something he would probably love to hear but just can't accept right now.

Because yes, he notices Danny in the room, in the building, next to him on assignments and trying to lighten the mood by making bad jokes about mythical creatures in apartment buildings. It never fails to charm him senseless, and he has to put extra effort in not smiling like an idiot and stumbling all over the guy, because that would not do. At all. Ever.

Who's he kidding here, besides his running for his life across the city self? The only good thing that comes from this is that he'll never get lost in the city, and that he doesn't have to worry about getting out of shape. The muscles and endurance that comes from being scared of his own shadow will serve him well one day, when a serial killer or a child molester or someone who is trying to escape debtor’s prison who used to run track tries to escape the justice brought by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He's at the edges of the mainland portion of the city, waterfront before him and Manhattan shooting up into the sky like a menacing blight on the horizon. He remembers a book that he read once, where aliens took Manhattan to save a small part of the human race, just to keep it from being destroyed with the rest of the planet when other aliens came to just kill them all dead.

He imagines a bubble forming over the island, and grins to himself.

Another good thing from these runs, at least he gets to amuse himself with some hardcore stupid shit.

Danny has been giving him looks since he thought of him enough to give him half a sandwich with fucking avocadoes on it last week, and he really doesn't see what the big deal is. Yeah, no one told him that it was his favourite, but it isn't like it was a big secret or anything. It would be really difficult to not notice the green (and maybe turning brown on the edges, depending on how long the sandwich sat before consumption) mashed up glop that squirts out with every bite, smearing on Danny Taylor's fingers so that he can dart out a tongue as soon as he swallows the bulk of the initial bite to lick off the..

Not going there. Not. Going. There.

So back on topic, he has no idea why there is such a big deal about a type of food with Danny, and he is probably avoiding him because of that. Not because he doesn't want to be asked the question again, of why he noticed what the man prefers to eat, but because he is slightly freaked out by the odd gazes and considering looks during the day, and sometimes the deer-in-headlights stare that happens when Danny walks into the offices first thing in the morning looking haggard and worn.

He'd like to ask Danny why he hasn't been getting sleep lately, especially since there has been plenty of down time as of late, but that would add to the original creepy parts of their relationship, so he doesn't. Instead he stares back as blankly as possible, doesn't give anything away, and waits until Special Agent Taylor drops his gaze and goes back to work.

Another slow day at the office, with no case load and Danny sneaking looks at the back of his head and the girls playing Gin Rummy at the conference table while giggling in a conspiring way. Jack lurks at the edges, keeping an eye on them and on Sam in particular, and he still doesn't feel anything about it one way or the other. Just leans back in his chair, the solitaire game on the computer having lost its amusement for him, and wonders if he should try juggling pens to pass the time.

The hairs at the back of his neck stand up straight, and he goes "uh oh" in his head before turning to see if what he suspects is true really is. And yes, it is, there is his father walking in the door, heading for relaxed Jack overseeing the gambling pool that is most assuredly going on in a government building.

He hisses out quickly, "Jack, incoming!" and then leans forward to his computer, pretending to find something interesting to focus on. The Database, good, that will work. Look up random criminals to familiarise himself with their work, perfect. He can pretend to be prepared.

He hears Vincent Fitzgerald tell Jack he wants to speak to him, and he tries to not look and see what sort of expression is on his father's face. Fails to resist miserably, casts his eyes about to see, and a lead stone settles in the bottom of his stomach at the intense stare that means business, be it concerning family members or the bureau.

Danny stage whispers over to him, "Martin, why is your dad here?"

He tilts his chair to the side, looks over at his sometimes partner not really caring if he looks like a delinquent schoolboy in class passing notes, and shakes his head in a negative fashion. Says, "No idea."

Danny mirrors his position, and looks at him very seriously. “Is there going to be trouble, you think?”

He grins at him, rolls his head back a little so he’s look at Danny slightly upside down, and shrugs. “If he is, we have shoes as a backup.”

The light that sparks in his sometimes partner’s eyes makes him think a little, and the sudden disappearance of it with a quick turn away makes him think a lot. He says to himself, “Damnit, more to consider,” and turns himself back to his desk.

Says to himself again, “Damnit,” and continues to pretend to investigate criminals.

That day when he gets home, he grabs his falling-to-pieces sneakers, throws on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and starts to run. He doesn’t think about Danny, or his issues with life in general, or the latest book he read in a fit of boredom. He doesn’t even think about his father, or his quiet insistence that closed the day talking about taking a few days off, and how he is expected to be on a plane at ten tomorrow morning so that he can be there in plenty of time for his mother’s emergency surgery.

Instead he keeps an address in his head, and decides to play a game that he may or may not have played before. If he can find this certain location without looking at a map, without having never been even close to it before in the past, then he has officially run too much in his time of living in this city, and he’ll find a youth centre to volunteer at next month to get a new hobby.

Playing basketball with disenfranchised kids won’t do much for his personal demons, but maybe it will give him some good karma to use in an emergency situation that are certain to pop up in the future.

So he keeps this address in his head--why this one, he doesn’t really ponder on much, but it is something and he’s good with just something--and starts to run from his flat’s building. Runs north, looking at street signs as he passes, trying to find a pattern that might signify when he should turn and examine a neighbourhood more closely.

And he thinks that after three hours of constant jogging, of backing up and retracting steps and something just stopping and looking in some random direction and hoping his internal compass will show him the way, he gets close. Really, he does. He’s in some middle-class Spanish section of town, danceable pop music blaring from speakers situated just inside the various still-open stores that he passes, and there are tamale stands every block and a half. He knows he could probably ask where the street he is looking for is, get an odd look maybe, and then a point in the right direction.

But that will take up too much effort, so when he comes across a public phone, he pulls out his cell and dials speed number one and leans back to wait. Hears it ring twice, and then the line picks up with a rough voice saying “Taylor“ and he has to close his eyes before he can say anything.

“Yeah, Danny? It’s Martin.”

“Hey, Martin. What’s up?”

He notices the confusion on the other line, swallows his pride, and just says it before this aforementioned pride stops him. “I know we’re not really close or anything, man, but can we ignore that for tonight so I can crash on your couch? I’m going insane on my own right now.”

A slight pause, and he feels his throat tighten. If he has to back out of this apologetically, he doesn’t think he’s going to make it. Hears something in the background clatter onto a hard surface, maybe a pen hitting the floor or something, and then Special Agent Taylor begins to speak.

“Yeah, sure, Martin. Everything okay? I can come pick you up if you want.”

“Thanks, man,” he says, trying to not let loose a sigh of relief. He looks around, laughs a little, and peers up at the closest street sign. “And um, yeah, that would be great. I really don’t know where you live from where I am.”

“This running thing is unhealthy, man.”

He knows this, and he says so, and then tells him where he is. The ragged intake of breath makes his eyebrows raise, but if he has to croak out a request for friendship on a night like this then he isn’t going to comment on someone else’s problems getting a proper breath in. Especially if it’s Danny.

He gets an earful anyway, rapid words like “what the hell“ and “it’s close to sunset” and “quick, do you see any teenagers wearing the same colours, like white and purple or green and black?”

There are, in fact, a group of kids hanging out down the street from him, glancing over with curious looks but are otherwise non-threatening, and he decides against telling Danny this. Instead he says, “No, Danny, I’m not about to be caught in the crossfire of a gang shooting,” and smiles a little when the man starts to say in Spanish what he can only assume are curses.

Danny says to him “Stay there,” then the line goes dead, and he wonders if he could get away with sitting on the concrete with his head in his hands; if Danny will notice the little bits of fear and desolation that are sure to be on his face tonight when he finds him.

Just because he’s finally lost in this huge city, you see. Not because he finally managed to ask someone for help.

[Masterlist] Multi-Part Stories

2008-08-29T03:17:29Z

This is the Masterlist of Multi-Chaptered Stories posted here on this journal. Most everything posted here can be considered a one-shot, but on the rare occurance that I continue something or say that I plan to continue something, it is most often assigned a tag and added to this list. Updated sparingly, look at the tags beginning with multi-part fic: for an up-to-date list.

Stories: 03

Without A Trace [u.s. television show]
in its own luminescence | nc-17 | Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Postscript Pending | 3/3 | multi-part fic: in its own luminescence
slow chant | nc-17 | Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Complete| 2/2 | multi-part fic: slow chant
wings in the world | pg | Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Complete| 3/3 | multi-part fic: wings in the world

[Without A Trace] {27/31} (Danny/Martin) when old gods wake

2008-08-27T12:23:34Z

Title: when old gods wake
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Jack Malone, Samantha Spade, Viviane Johnson, Elena Delgado, Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG, WAFF alert please and thank you.
Theme & Community: August 27th 08, Slightly out of character, 31_days
Number: 27/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

"So, have you figured it out yet?" Danny asks him one day in the middle of shift, walking up behind him as quiet as a ninja and surprising him while focusing on a report.

He spins around in his chair, looks up at arms-crossed and smirk present partner, and replies, "Figured what out?"

Danny uncrosses his arms, makes a vague hand gesture that could mean anything really, and says, "If you have to ask, it means you obviously haven't."

Then he turns and goes back to his desk, while Martin sits there and wonders if maybe he hit his head this morning.

Yes, he hit his head this morning. He hit it so hard, he is currently bleeding and unconscious in the middle of his flat, suffering from a delusional dream that is designed to alert him to the getting-closer-to-death-now bit that is really and truly going on with him in the real world. Because this? This isn't real, not by a long shot.

So he hunches forward, ignores Danny behind him, and closes his eyes. Tells himself under his breath, "wake up wake up wake up," and hopes it will work. Sort of like Dorothy's ruby slippers. But not.

Sam approaches cautiously, he can tell it's her by the clicking of her heels on the floor, and she says softly to him, "Are you going to do anything about Danny?"

Opens his eyes, permits himself the luxury of looking up at her with sheer incredulity, and then shakes his head no. "What is there that I could do?"

She looks a bit scared, though in a Samantha Spade way not a freaked out co-worker way, and she glances over at their co-worker's current escapade, then looks away. Turns so that her back is to Danny--like Martin figured out how to do ages ago--and makes sure to examine a blank piece of paper very very seriously.

"He's stuck on a loop, I don't know. Stop him."

Martin wonders when it became his job to manage one Danny Taylor, and decides against asking her. He might get an answer, and that just wouldn't do. "If he was a robot I'd reboot him. But he isn't."

And he peers over his shoulder, takes in the scene. Danny gesturing wildly, trying to teach Elena how to line dance but add a Latin flavour to it. Viviane watching with intense curiosity, like she really wants to know this. Elena going along with things but looking bewildered and a tiny bit frightened and like she might just want to punch Danny if this goes on for much longer.

He turns away again, and says, "I don't see Jack, where is he?"

Sam replies, "In his office hiding."

He sighs, shoves himself upwards, and pats her on the shoulder in sympathy. Then he heads for the break room in a zigzag pattern, because when one is under fire, that is what one does to avoid getting hit.

And in this case, it is what one does to avoid getting caught in Danny's shenanigans.

They leave the building that their missing person lives in and stop outside, breathing in the cold air and looking up at the sky to see snowflakes tumble down upon them. Martin left his gloves at the office before they left, thinking that he was safe, and he curses softly at Mother Nature like a mature person and shoves his hands into his pockets with a sulk.

Danny leans in close next to him, and asks, "So, have you figured it out yet?"

He looks at him using the corner of his eyes, raises his eyebrows. Says in return, "Figured out what, Danny?"

The older man sighs, pulls away and shrugs at the heavens in a gesture that says "why me" in universal tongues. "Like I said, Martin. If you have to ask, you haven't."

Something inside him snaps, probably his sanity, and he pulls his hands out from the coat frostbite be damned and pokes Danny in the shoulder. Pokes again when it gets zero reaction, then settles for shoving him hard enough to make his partner slip and tumble into the snow-covered sidewalk.

Danny gapes up at him from his undignified position on the ground, and does the best manly shriek in the city. Yells at him a little, saying "What the hell Martin?"

"If you don't tell me what's going on now," he says, fists on hips and legs spread to look very menacing indeed, "then I will hurt you. A lot."

Danny yells back at him, because apparently his voice box is stuck on high now that he's laying in freezing cold snow, "Then what was that? A gesture of friendship? You pushed me, damnit!"

He does his best evil grin--which is quite evil, or so his nieces have told him on occasion--and resists the urge to laugh. "If you think a little shove is pain, then you'll be really easy."

He knows he is acting unlike himself, but Danny is too, so the shocked and offended expression that he is getting really isn't fair. That doesn't mean he's going to not carry out his threat, however.

He starts the next day, because doing it immediately wouldn't pack enough punch. Besides, after Danny picked himself up and brushed himself off, he did his best to stay five feet or more away from him at all times, until they could go home and rest a bit before coming back to find the girl.

And they did find the girl--he supposes he could call her woman, or lady even, but she had pink frills for curtains, and he's sorry but no--and they found her relatively soon, so all there was were reports and waiting for the phone call that would give them something else to do.

So he starts the next day, after things have died down a bit, and he can revel in his underhandedness.

He brings Danny coffee, puts it on his desk and walks back to his own without saying anything. Martin has always known how the man took his coffee and Danny knows it, so there are certain expectations to be put forth when one or the other helps out and gets a piping hot beverage for two.

Danny makes an odd gurgling noise after the first sip, and he resists the urge to put on the evil grin again.

It is Thursday, and provided they aren't stuck on a case, it is pizza night. So they meet at the restaurant closer to Danny's flat than his own, place their order, and settle for staring at one another in silence.

Danny speaks first after a while, asks yet again, "Figured it out?"

Martin lets his head fall onto the tabletop with a thunk, and groans. "I won't know unless you tell me, Danny."

Danny's leg does this nervous jumping thing under the table, and he watches it and thinks to himself, "huh."

Jack walks up to him while he's playing solitaire on his computer, and asks in monotone if he's going to do something about Danny yet.

He looks up at him mid-click, and says in return, "Sam sent you, didn't she?" He does not add the the coward that he wishes he could to that question.

His boss nods in the direction of currently-giving-a-puppet-show Danny and then gives him one of those patented looks that will make you feel like dirt if it stays on your person for longer than ten seconds. Says, "He's your best friend, and if you don't do something, I'll do something."

Martin watches Jack walk away, and wishes the panic in his gut would go away, along with the certainty that if he lets Danny get sat upon by Jack Malone, he will feel guiltier than sin.

So he stands up, walks over to his partner, wraps an arm around his waist--why not his shoulders he doesn't know, but he is pretty sure this will get the guy's attention, so he doesn’t try to adjust--and hauls him away from the lamp before he can do more damage. Ignores the sputters and broken words of protest that Danny manages to eject from his mouth as they get to the empty side hallway, and doesn't let go when they finally stop.

Danny opens his mouth to say something, but he interjects before a sound can be made.

"I swear to God Danny, ask me if I've figured it out and I will throw you through the next available pane of glass."

Special Agent Danny Taylor's mouth shuts with a snap--with a genuine snap, really it does--and blinks. Blinks again, twists his head just so, and stares down at Martin for a minute. Which would really make him nervous, but he's angry and slightly uncomfortable in the current position that he's holding Danny in, so he doesn't acknowledge it and chooses instead to raise his eyebrows and wait.

He is genuinely surprised when Danny ducks his head down to kiss him solidly on the mouth, but he manages a coherent thought, something along the lines of ‘oh, well, that explains a lot.’ Except it doesn’t, not by far, but he isn’t going to continue along that vein until after this is over so he just leaves it at it explaining a lot and presses back a little to show reciprocation.

And Danny pulls away, a smirk on his face, and he asks, “Figured it out, yet?”

Martin groans, lets his arm drop away from Danny’s waist, and takes a step back. Says, “Damnit, Danny,” and shakes his head in exasperation. Then on a moment of spontaneity, steps close again with hands grabbing fistfuls of his best friend’s suit jacket, and pulls the man down for another kiss.

He still isn’t one hundred percent sure about what is going on with Danny and in turn, what is going on with him, but he has a good idea that this might have something to do with it.

[Without A Trace] {26/31} (Danny/Martin) silent consent we discussed

2008-08-26T10:50:53Z

Title: silent consent we discussed
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, implied boysex.
Theme & Community: August 26th 08, You are all I know, 31_days
Number: 26/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

There are these themes, right? And they are prevalent throughout all of time, for certain people in certain situations who are doing certain things, and the clichéd part about it all is these things that these certain people are doing are in itself a cliché and nothing but. It is a cliché, an expected occurrence, same old same old , been there done that got the t-shirt.

This surreptitious glance from one to the other, well thought out and used by everyone else doing the exact same thing. This brush of fingers, same. This hauling off into a side alley while still on an assignment for a groping session, same. The nervousness from both parties that makes them skitter around one another while making sure to not give anything away, same.

The sigh of relief and shudder in reaction to sensation when they finally decide to stop skirting the issue and just go to bed together, same.

Martin supposes he could go all self-serving and make a comparison between Danny and something metaphorical and most probably treacly sweet at the same time, but he really hasn't the energy for it. Instead he just wants to lay there spread-eagle in the centre of Danny's huge bed and enjoy the feeling of his body thrumming from the exertion, his blood slowly slowing from the recent lack of air that only slightly reached his lungs in the last half hour.

And he likes to do this, relax for the first time since he got to work and watch Danny sit cross-legged next to him while poring over a textbook.

He reaches up to place a hand in between Danny's shoulder blades, palm flat against skin and just feeling the slightly sticky feel of his best friend partner in crime and probably lover (that word rolls around in his mind for a bit after it makes the list, and he thinks that later when he has time, he should probably marvel at it a bit). Clears his throat, asks, "When is the exam?"

Distracted response murmured in the middle of some Law jargon that he will never understand, "Two months from Sunday."

He goes "Ah" and drops his hand, closes his eyes and just breathes. Doesn't smile, not really, when Danny settles down next to him draping an arm and leg over his prone form in strategic places.

Danny's voice is a bit rough from the chanting he was doing earlier, so he sort of croaks out in his ear, "Have you decided what you want to do?"

He laughs, thinks to himself that of course he won't let this go he's Danny Taylor, and replies, "Buy a strip bar and send over my best patrons to you for clients?"

Fingernails scratch his abdomen as punishment, and they're laughing and twisting together, textbook hitting the floor with a thump and a flutter of pages.

He's good with guns, likes them fine, but when the business end goes off next to his head and almost takes an ear with it, he comes to the conclusion that if there were less in the world he wouldn't mind much. And he tackles the shooter down into the asphalt, Danny screaming after him and running closer while trying to still be an FBI agent at the same time, then cuffs the bastard while growling.

Danny comes up to them, gun out and pointed at the squirming form of the guy who just tried to shoot him, and the older man looks a bit scared and bewildered, which he didn't used to until they started with this thing they had going. Gasps a little because he's out of breath, and asks Martin frantically if he's all right.

Martin growls at the man trying to squirm away, and decides hell with it and sits on him. Ignores the yells and variations of the words police brutality and looks up at his partner. Tosses his hands into the air, and says, "I'm going to buy businesses, make them prosper, then sell them. That's what I have a degree to do, and that's what I'm going to do."

Danny looks confused, a bit wary, then pleased and grinning like a loon. Says with an amused lilting inflection, "Is that your final answer?"

He growls up at him, tells the criminal he's sitting on to shut up, then looks back and tosses his hands again. "Yes, it is. If it doesn't work out I'll be a librarian or something, but yeah, that's what I'm going to do."

The wiggling criminal with a FBI Agent using him as a chair does not appreciate Danny's laughter, and has no trouble telling them so in length.

[Without A Trace] {25/31} (Danny/Martin) miss you more than anything

2008-08-25T22:17:28Z

Title: miss you more than anything
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: quasi-Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: R, might be a bit disturbing for anyone who has a really evil-looking shrink.
Theme & Community: August 25th 08, God lives underwater, 31_days
Number: 25/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

He remembers reading something in passing way back when he was in Law School saying how evil death is and how the gods were all advocates of life, because if death was a good thing then they themselves would be all 'yey, let's jump on the bandwagon' and die right there along with the mortals. That small bit of text, a poem or maybe just a line formatted weird in the textbook, it stays with him when he faces down a gun or runs from something soon to explode or sits and watches Martin work at his desk with blank eyes and methodical movements.

Because death really is something evil, because after all of this Martin still won't die, even if it probably would be better for him. He doesn't think he'd like it much if Martin were dead, unrequited love affection lust obsession being the main factor and all that, but he doesn't like it much that he's alive either, blank and cold like this for all eternity.

He cannot say anything about this to anyone, because they would probably ask him if he planned on killing his partner before they cautiously called for backup. He can't express this feeling of hopelessness that settles in his chest wrapped around his heart, just squeezes and restricts and makes him want to break down crying, because then he would start crying, and where would he be if that happened?

And he can't tell Martin this, because he did once, not soon after it all happened, and the blank stare that he got in return almost let the evil in to kill him. Remove him from Martin’s side via death, where the God Mars gets to mechanically go through his life underwater, slow and deadly and never leaving the earth because death is just too evil for good kind glorious possessing of a dead soul Martin.

Interviews interviews, paperwork paperwork. Break for sustenance and then return to the mundane routine. He should take that Bar Exam, he shouldn't let another life-threatening crisis concerning Martin and some bullets or Martin and some molested children or Martin being six feet under stop him from getting on with his life. If he could be a lawyer, yes he'd have to deal with scum on a regular basis just like now, but he could do it on his terms and he wouldn't be working a job that is slowly crushing him to death.

There is that evil death thing again.

Six months after, and Martin is smiling again. There is no light in his eyes, just an upward tilt to the corners of his mouth, but the others mark it as improvement and are starting to relax a little. He won't relax along with them though, because the light is still gone no matter how wide the grin can spread.

And there Martin is, light gone and lips open in a laugh. It sounds rough and disused, faltering a bit now that it has been released and unsure as to where to go, who to see. Danny wants to cover his ears and scream when he hears Martin's new laugh, because it reminds him of the giggle that was let loose when he finally found him, dug him up and tore wood into his hands trying to free him.

He still hears that giggle in his dreams, combined with mounds of dirt and a shattered six foot long pine box, and it never lets him sleep for long.

He talks to the missing person's brother, locked away at Rikers and looking the worse for wear. "Julio got the new kid, man," he tells him when he comments on how tired he looks, "it's kind of hard to sleep through the screams, you know?"

There is no information to be had here, so he thanks him for his time and leaves, walking down the double-locked cells to his next appointment. The two guards escorting him look straight ahead, because they know who they are going to see, and they aren't happy about it.

They let him into a small cell, no window and sparse light from a caged light bulb affixed to the ceiling. He sits there, fingers forming a steeple under his chin and elbows resting on the table, amusement glittering in his eyes. He looks like a cat who just caught the canary, and is now trying to decide which part he wants to rip off first.

He says to the man behind the table, "I wish I had killed you back then. I'd be in jail now, but it would've been worth it."

The man replies, "And telling me this, how does it make you feel?"

He wishes he could strangle him here, penance for Martin even though if they had figured it out earlier there wouldn't be any penance to pay. He can't, though, so he doesn't, and he leaves the cell as quietly as he entered.

Nine months after, and Martin tries to joke with him again, teasing about the Knick’s complete loss the night previous and wouldn’t he like to support a different team yet? Like maybe one that consists of actual players instead of monkeys?

He pauses, looks at the attempt with a collected viewpoint as he can, and smiles slowly. There is nothing behind it, he’s sure his eyes are lacking the same light that Martin’s are, but he tries anyway.

Replies in an affronted tone with something expected, sees the relieved ease of tension in the shoulders of his best friend, and he is glad he managed to do something right.

Twelve months after, and Martin looks at him with not-so-blank-anymore eyes and says, “So, feeling better yet?”

He finds himself to be completely confused by the question, so he just stares at him and doesn‘t answer.

Postscript: The poem discussed in the beginning is Sappho, from the Barnard translation:
We know this much
Death is an evil;
we have the gods'
word for it; they too
would die if death
were a good thing

[Without A Trace] {24/31} (Danny/Martin) like a diadem

2008-08-25T03:44:14Z

Title: like a diadem
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Elena Delgado/Danny Taylor, implied one-sided Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG
Theme & Community: August 24th 2008, The turn of her heel, the nape of her neck, 31_days
Number: 24/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from). And, um, sorry for the length, the Beijing Olympics Closing are demanding my attention and I suck at multi-tasking.

Elena has always liked Danny, always thought he was special. Sometimes she wondered what he was doing with her, though, because all of his attention always seemed to be focused on something else.

It doesn’t bother her, not exactly, but she just would wonder every now and again, when he’d take her out to dinner and only talk about work and her daughter, or when he’d be alone with her in the break room and fret about Martin.

It is actually the Martin part that gets her thinking, because whenever the man comes up in conversation (which is often, she has to admit) Danny becomes so focused and intense she just knows that the Deputy Director’s son is first priority.

Even over her, the girlfriend.

So she sometimes wonders why Danny is with her, when he is so obsessed with his partner. It might be because she has a child, and it is pretty obvious that Danny adores children. It might be because she is female, and Martin is most definitely not.

Or maybe neither of those options. It might all boil down to Martin never looking back when Danny stares, and shifting away when Danny touches.

It might only be because of that.

[Without A Trace] {23/31} (Martin/Danny) sunny side of his heart

2008-08-23T12:23:47Z

Title: sunny side of his heart
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Martin Fitzgerald/Danny Taylor
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: NC-17, not very descriptive boysmut.
Theme & Community: August 23rd 2008, Understand my hate for you, 31_days
Number: 23/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from). Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, littleamirgirl ♥ Feel better, okay?

He is quite sure that if he had any less of a level of tolerance, he'd be crying and screaming and rocking back forth back forth right about now. Frustration is gnawing on his spinal cord, because it already worked through his ribcage and vital organs, so he sits here hollow and angry and wanting to hit something.

There should be something happy and bright about Martin Fitzgerald, something that people could hear about him and make them smile because oh isn't that wonderful? But there isn't, not right now.

And he still wants to hit something.

Danny is completely inside inside him, balls-deep and stretching just so, and is not moving. At all. He keens and claws and arches his back to try to spur on just a shift or anything that might get the ball rolling here, and hands on hips and rough laughter puffed out onto his neck puts a stop to any coordinated attempt. So he settles for gasping and clenching down, and hoping that does the job.

It always works out this way, go to his best friend for therapeutic sex and end up being tortured for his trouble. He wonders why he even bothers sometimes.

"Move," he thinks he almost wails in desperation.

"Not until I hear you beg."

He keens some more, knows there are misshapen and probably crass words falling from his lips, but they get Danny to withdraw and thrust back in, so he makes friends with the sparks behind his eyelids and forgives him.

There is a piano in Danny's flat, which is funny because Danny doesn't play. Not a piano, anyway, and on the multiple instances where he asked why the fuck a piano is in his apartment, he gets a blasé answer that doesn't really answer anything and only serves to further the frustration he feels at just life in general. Because it's just a question, damnit, and it deserves an answer one of these days.

So that night, after cleanup and kisses that leaves an aftertaste of apology, he sits at the bench and starts to play. Nothing intense, or anything he had to play over and over again in his youth to make his parents feel validated in their parenting methods. Just a small piece of jazz, unstructured music that sounds like heaven to his ears, even on a slightly out of key dusty instrument such as this.

He finds that he is humming along to the tune, forming words in his mind but not quite releasing them into the air. Danny is behind him, consisting of bemusement and affection as the older man watches him make the old wooden box full of cords sing, and he thinks that he really does forgive him for making him beg every time he gets over himself enough to come over here.

That doesn't stop it from furthering the feeling of imminent breakdown that lurks over his shoulder, peering down at whatever he is focusing on and whispering into his ear, "it isn't worth it and you know it."

A four year old girl is missing, a recent placement into foster care because her father liked to touch too much, and he is almost ready to scream again. This smacks of normal cases, where the biological parent lifts the child because they feel entitled to torture their spawn just because the kid is their spawn and no one else’s, but both parents have been in jail since last week and they have no leads because of it.

Jack has him running names, people from the girl's school and playground and grocery store who might have records and as such deserve a second look. All that leaves him to do is sit and watch the computer crunch away, because there is nothing to do after the initial typing, and he doesn't know why he was given such an easy job when Viviane is sick again and could use the lightening of the work load.

But all she is doing is sitting at the conference table and reviewing files, so he supposes she has the truly non-stressful job in this mission after all, and swallows his resentment towards Jack with a grimace.

And Danny walks into the bullpen carrying more folders, dumps them in front of Elena with a grin and something said in lilting Spanish, so he stands and leaves, the computer will beep at someone when there are results.

The hallway is clear of people, it being after three in the morning, so he walks the length and lets himself shake, lets himself rest against the door of the office supply closet when he comes to it and just breath, try to steady himself and ignore the frantic whispers saying over and over again, "itisn'tworthitandyouknowit."

Footsteps come up behind him, and Danny's hand rests on his shoulder. He reaches up to capture a bony wrist and just hold on, soaking in the good intentions and wondering if Danny ever forgives him for this, ever allows him these moments of weakness without judging and weighing options in that ever clicking in tandem to the universe mind of his.

He uses his free hand to swing open the door to the supply room, hauls himself and his best friend inside, closes the door with a click and a darkening of the general environment. Pulls himself upwards and drags his mouth up roughened skin stretched tight over a jaw and onto a smiling mouth, opening his own lips to taste and suck out the air from Danny's lungs so that he himself can breathe for him.

And the words are more frantic, skipping and stopping in certain places, but he whispers back with little thoughts of "it is worth it, it is" and leans into the feeling of Danny's hands threaded through his hair and thus cradling his head.

He tries to drown the inadequacy of his life by breathing for Danny in an office supply closet at work, and he still finds it to be a better thing to do with his time than sitting and staring at a photograph of another child missing where all he can do to help her is sit in front of a computer and wait for it to fucking beep.

Jack knocks on the door, says "We have a lead, come on," and then walks away.

They pull apart, Danny breathing for Danny again and he breathing for himself. He isn't shaking anymore, so this session helped, but he knows what will quiet everything for far longer, and he pushes a violent kiss onto Danny before leaving the room and his best friend spinning behind him.

For all the brutality of the situation, clothing stripped as soon as the door to the flat closes and eventually just bent over the back of a kitchen chair, Danny is almost reverent with kisses down his spine and slow strokes that make his entire body shudder and force an almost moan from his lips. He has one arm to steady himself, the other twisted around behind his back so that Danny can insert some punishment for earlier at work, bruising both their mouths and getting Jack to glare a little in knowing.

But he shouldn’t be thinking about Jack right now, and he doesn’t anymore because there is this thing that his best friend does with his tongue that he is doing right now and he forgets everything except the chair and the pressure and his gasping breath that may or may not get enough oxygen to his brain throughout this encounter.

Danny murmurs against his spine, “let me make you feel better, Martin,” said with steel underlying the words even though it almost comes out as a plea.

He just breathes back a “yes,” and focuses on loving the feel of Danny smiling against him.

He still wants to hit something, but he doubts that urge will ever stop.

[Without A Trace] {22/31} (Danny/Martin) energy to maintain his Paradise

2008-08-22T08:18:47Z

Title: energy to maintain his Paradise
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Viviane Johnson, Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Theme & Community: August 22nd 08, Behind closed doors, 31_days
Number: 22/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from). Also, this is another meandering thing that sort of has no purpose again. Um, yeah-- Not sure, not going to be sure, insert mantra here.

Danny accuses him of being Scheherazade in the wee hours of the morning, when there is a lack of coffee because the break room ran out and they are the only two left in the office while the rest of the unit continues to track down leads. He hears him, ignores him, hears an echo of what was said, and then stares at the man in astonishment.

"Why would I be her?" he asks, hands paused over the manila envelope he was in the process of opening when he was informed of his apparent likeness to a Persian Storyteller Queen. "I don't look like her, I mean."

Danny growls a little, throws up his hands and stalks forward to lean over him. "You tell stories so you don't get killed, or in this case, in trouble."

He knows he is staring stupidly up at the older man, but he can't help it, knows he can't and flounders a bit mentally as he tries to formulate a response.

"What?"

Intelligent of him, no?

One good thing about reading a lot when he was a kid is that he knows a lot of words that he can use to describe Danny. And though this was not the intended use of this knowledge--he recalls something about wanting to be smarter than everyone else so that he could be in control of his life, way back in his adolescence--it is extremely convenient to use a word like vociferous in the older man's hearing and only get befuddled looks in return.

Jack knows what he's talking about, though, and he gets an approving chuckle from the man before they disperse for their assignments. He walks with Viviane, her wary gaze as always trained at his eyes to see what she can see, and he is sure that something akin to panic is reflecting in them.

Because Danny is walking behind him, not paying any attention to Sam's shouts back in the bullpen, and he doesn't know what to do when he catches up with him.

So he stiffens when long fingers wrap around a bicep, and still lets himself be pulled back because there is less fuss that way. Danny leans close, head angled down so that he can breath hot against his mouth, a hairbreadth away. Viviane continues to walk, ignoring them, and enters the lift without caring if her assigned partner is with her.

"I changed my mind, you aren't Scheherazade," Danny says, eyes searching his own to take in the panic and abyss and most probably lust swirling around his pupils. It's like he can feel his eyes darken as the older man licks his lips, and he dimly wonders if this is a predecessor to falling down into hell.

He swallows, and nods, and does his best to resist the urge to shake. He isn't finding his extreme ability to use difficult words helpful now, because his tongue is too big to fit inside his mouth and he has to breathe with lips parted just to regulate the air filling his lungs. He tries to shift backwards, and Danny follows, pressing him against the wall opposite the lift doors, and completely ignoring the fact that they are at work.

"But," Danny continues, licking his lips again just because, "I'll listen anyway."

And then he's gone, back to the bullpen and laughing at Sam's grumbles, leaving Martin leaning against cool glass and wondering if his legs will support him for the rest of the shift.

The look Viviane gives him when he finally catches up with her allows no excuses or explanations, and he is for once happy that she walked in on them during an argument months ago; where Danny was telling Martin off for tying the scarves too tight the night previous. She promised to keep quiet about it, raised hand and stern look while telling them to be more careful in the future, and she keeps that promise by ignoring the touches and the looks that they now manage to exchange when only she is around.

He smiles weakly, follows her down into the garage to check out a vehicle, and tries to not think about Danny being overbearing or Danny being close and pressing and intrusive like he always is. Gets into the passenger side of the car because in all fairness Viviane is the better driver, and swallows down the dread at her bemused glance for later.

Danny is reading Arabian Nights when he gets back to his flat, sprawled out bare under a flimsy sheet on the king-sized bed and idly flipping through pages. Martin is unimpressed, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes, not really entering the bedroom but close enough to observe every movement. He takes in the dictionary on the nightstand, knows he can’t use that word again without probably getting dragged into the men’s bathroom for a round of punishment, and he sighs because he really doesn’t know what to do.

Danny stops, peers over the book, and rolls his eyes at the downtrodden look. “You coming in, or are you going to sleep out there tonight?”

He eyes the semi-arousal that isn’t hidden by a three hundred thread count, and feels a shudder flow up and down his spine. Manages to get his clothing off in record time, and gets his books out of the general area of contact before they get ruined.

Later, he asks in a slow way, “How did you get in here?”

And later, the answer is, “You know how.”

He thinks back to having to ask for a key from the doorman, because his keys were missing and he was pretty sure he lost them inside his flat, and he sighs and sinks further into the mattress, yes being pressed down by the body of his best friend and right now best friend with additional benefits, and says simply, “Thief.”

Danny laughs, presses closer, and does not deny it.

He tells Danny that he is full of beans the next day in the office, and he can’t say anything else for the rest of the day without his best friend laughing like a maniac.

He swears he sees Viviane smiling into her report when he walks past.

[Without A Trace] {21/31} (Martin/Danny) my bare palms

2008-08-21T07:45:19Z

Title: my bare palms
Author: Kjata (edincoat)
Characters & Pairings: Martin Fitzgerald & Danny Taylor
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG
Theme & Community: August 21st 08, These hands made of splinters, 31_days
Number: 21/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from). Also, this is a bit.. all over the place, and I've no real idea if this has a purpose, but I wrote it, and I'm posting it. (that last bit seems to be a mantra of mine, hasn't it? XD)

Everything tends to pixelate from the outside in when he gets like this, and he has yet to figure out why. It could be that he had some unknown head trauma when he was a child maybe, or perhaps it could just be his way of looking at the world. Regardless, he gets to stand there and watch everyone turn into bits and bytes and multiple cubes that sort of scatter and then snap back together, and he gets to not say a word about it.

Which is just fine by him, actually, because this is amusing as fuck, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Danny catches him staring off into space, and he tears away from the depixelisation of his computer to look up at his best friend. Courtesy dictates he does so, so he does, and it helps that the man is close enough he can feel body heat sort of just waver right there outside of his senses, beckoning him to lean close but reminding him all the same that if he does give in and get closer, there might be problems immediately down the line.

He isn't paying attention again, so he says, "What was that?" and tilts his head back to get a better look.

Danny makes an exasperated noise, and makes those crazy hand gestures again. "I said, Martin, that the kid was spotted at a computer cafe last night, right? So maybe if we send her something, she might respond, and we can find her that way."

It isn't a bad idea, and he has no trouble saying so. Along with some Devil's Advocate thrown in. "Yeah, but what if she isn't near a computer to check her e-mail? Then it will be a waste of time."

His partner looks down at him with sheer incredulity, and he gets the message loud and clear: What, are you crazy? He stands, hits Danny on the shoulder, and moves past him. "Never mind, forget I said that. Let's go see about writing something she'll respond to."

Danny follows him to Mac's cubicle, and he can feel the wariness and confusion just radiate off of him.

Great.

The girl takes two hours to reply, thrilled at the prospect of meeting someone from Japan right there in New York, especially one peddling genuine anime and Japanese drama goods. Danny laughs as Mac squirms a little at the sheer amount of emoticons in the response, then turns to look at Martin with a smug grin.

He rolls his eyes at his co-worker, and does his best to ignore him. His effort lasts for about one minute, Danny looking at him the entire time, so he makes a rude gesture and leaves the area. Someday he'd like to use a different method to wipe grins off of his partner's face, but for now he'll settle for stomping off like a five year old and sniggering when Danny does the exaggerated impersonation later.

"Look, Martin, I'm doing this with or without you," Danny says to him, wild movement of limbs and digits and inflection of the eyes as he expresses how important this moment is. "So what's it going to be, Fitzie?"

He still feels like he should protest, so he does. "This is a bad idea, Taylor."

And Danny's face falls just a little, enough to show disappointment and oh god is that directed at him? So he sighs, and shifts, and stands with hands spread out before him in a pleading, look I'm not armed gesture. "Fine, I'll help you."

Danny looks bright and shiny and happy, switches expressions like a light switch attached to twinkling lights from the holidays, and he feels like he's been duped somehow. Which he wouldn't mind so much, if Danny wasn't so fucking gleeful and obvious about it.

A bag containing filled water balloons is dumped into his arms, and he staggers a little under the weight.

Says Danny, "Jack is so going to regret insulting my suit."

He sighs again, and follows the vengeful friend.

He's spacing out again, and he knows it somewhere in the base of his skull, so he really doesn't appreciate it when Special Agent Danny Taylor decides to flick him in the back of the head to get his attention. He jumps and flails forward a bit, then leans back into his chair and gives his best wilting glare. The glare he inherited from his mother, damnit, and it better work on the bastard co-worker of his.

It doesn't, if Danny's grin is anything to go by, and he growls a little in frustration.

Danny ignores him, says, "Hey."

They're serving a twenty-five to life sentence of desk duty for dumping an insane amount of water balloons on the boss of their unit and the boss of the entire floor, and he is saying hey like an asshole?

He seethes up at him, then gives up and just says "hey" back with a toss of hands and roll of eyes.

Danny's triumphant grin is something he should really learn to ignore, but he still lets it piss him off, so he turns his chair quickly away and does his best to not jump when Danny flicks him in the back of the head again.

Jack stalks into the bullpen all thundercloud and lightening following to wreak havoc, and Martin notices how both he and Danny instantly try to look busy as opposed to flicking paperclips at each other from across the carpet. The rest of the tired unit follows him, raised eyebrows and sullen looks when they take in the scattered office supplies and the innocent looks.

He feels slightly guilty at Viviane's haggard look, and when she smiles at him like an indulgent mother, his self-worth plummets to about two cents of dry dog food. He glances at Danny, sees the same shell-shocked and bewildered expression that he is sure to have as well, and feels slightly better.

After all, misery loves company.

Everything tends to pixelate when he gets like this, all befuddled and slow and just sitting and waiting for the next scheme that Danny will cook up for them to get into trouble yet again. Because amusing himself with visual effects that may or may not come from some unknown head trauma when he was younger is all fine and dandy, but rabble rousing with his favourite co-worker is a lot better overall.

[Without A Trace] {20/31} (Danny/Martin) nor the stone he threw into my music

2008-08-20T23:36:12Z

Title: nor the stone he threw into my music
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald, Danny Taylor/Elena Delgado
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: R, ADULTERY! or something like it.
Theme & Community: August 20th 08, I am to be pitied, not to be sold, 31_days
Number: 20/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

Holding on to such a thing is rather futile, he agrees. Doing this clinging by a fingernail onto the edge of sanity while screaming at Martin, don't drop me because I will so fucking haunt you if you do, he knows that he should just give up and let go.

Martin will never drop him, but there is nothing to stop the guy from going over the edge with him.

The first day after they shed clothes in one another's presence for the first time, touch naked skin to naked skin and explore using hands and tongues, they meet back at the office and don't look at each other. Because this anomaly is best not spoken of, even if talking about it might salvage a friendship.

And Martin looks like he might say something eventually, really he does at first. And then Elena walks up and asks him why he didn't pick up when she called last night, and it isn't like he could say Oh, sorry, I was busy being fucked against my front door.

He manages to say he was sleeping, must have been tired, and she leans down to kiss him on the cheek and Martin leaves the office without giving anything away.

The second day after their second encounter, a full week after the first one and a lot more frantic if it one could think it possible, they still don't look at one another, because otherwise there might be something exchanged that couldn't be explained. Like Martin bending Danny over his desk chair, right there in the centre of the bullpen.

He took care of Elena's suspicions before he came into work, inviting her over to breakfast and charming both her and her daughter like the professional con he is. Even kissed each girl on the cheek and smiled like they were the only bits of light in his life, not that his attention was focused on a male-co-worker whenever they weren't around.

And even sometimes when they were.

The third fourth fifth sixth seventh eighth nth day after their nth meeting, they don't look at each other, all right? There are no glances exchanged, no subtle smiles to let the other one know that he does indeed care and that this isn't a grinding of stucco wall-covering with bare backs sort of thing that will never end but will never go anywhere either.

And Martin is cool about it, so long as they don't say anything at all during work hours except for required communication. The other team-mates have noticed, but not said anything, because really it isn't their place to question what is going on with the two.

The only thing that has changed is that Danny now takes Elena and her daughter out to breakfast the morning after, because he's guilty and a horrible person and he can't stand to let anyone inside his flat unless it's Martin naked and gasping against him.

Months and months, Elena finally notices something. Not a mark, or a bruise, or a glazed expression when his thoughts turn to Martin's mouth on him, but a stiffening of the back when Martin walks past with nary a glance. She asks, why aren't you two speaking?

He answers, it's complicated.

She persists, why aren't you two speaking?

And he finds that, through the immense guilty-feeling, he has to tell her.

It is three in the morning, and they haven't met for two weeks seven days. He doesn't know when he had to invoke a twelve-step programme when dealing with withdrawals from Martin, but it works, so he continues. Elena is long gone, transferred out because of disgust and just a little anger, taking her daughter with her and isn't he glad he isn't a fly on the wall for the conversation where she tells her exactly why Danny won't be around anymore.

Martin made no recognition to his ending of things with Elena, as if it was too late now and this stopping of their meetings kind of drives that home for him. He should have told Elena at the beginning, he should have just not started with her at all and gone after Martin instead. The idea of never taking up with Martin does pass by his thoughts, but he ignores it until it goes away, because this, this. It needs to keep going, or he'll tumble over the edge dragging a slightly sullen and pissed off Martin down with him.

He's outside the younger man's building, and he is glad it is dark because picking the lock isn't something that is applauded in the FBI. Actually, he is pretty certain he would lose his job for it. And though this is more important in the long run--lawyers make more money anyway--he doesn't want anything to stop him from doing this.

Martin's building doesn't have central heating, so it is downright frigid as he treks up the four storeys worth of stairs to get to his partner's front door. He pounds on it, cold and dancing a little to warm up, and doesn't wait to ask permission as he practically dives inside when the door opens.

He shivers as the warmth starts to thaw his limbs, and ignores Martin completely as he sheds every bit of cloth and protection he has on him.

Turns to the man he's pretty much given everything up for, and takes in the quickened breath but still flat-gaze. He smiles as gently as he can, goes forward and presses close, kisses the side of a closed mouth and just lingers.

Whispers against him, only you from now on.

And almost shakes with relief when Martin kisses him back.

[Without A Trace] {19/31} (Danny/Martin) spatial disturbance

2008-08-19T10:32:18Z

Title: spatial disturbance
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG
Theme & Community: August 19th 08, Bang, bang, blame, 31_days
Number: 19/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Mister Jonathan Percy Tennyson sits primly on the hard metal chair in the interrogation room, radiating confidence, patience, and above all, nobility. He does not fidget, does not look anywhere but at the person speaking to him, is nothing but polite to every agent who walks in to interrogate him and then walks away in disgust.

He and Martin look inside the room through one-way glass, and listen to Jack through cellular phone tell them what they've just found at the man's house. It's enough to convict, if they can get a method of behaviour established. If they can get him to lose his cool just once and maybe try to kill some agents using his bare hands, they'll have a case.

Click goes the phone line, and they silently watch another agent flounder in the flat gaze of a serial killer who irons his shirts every morning.

Martin removes his gun from his holster, puts it on the table against the far wall. Reaches over to take Danny’s gun too, and do the same.

"You have something in mind," he says.

"Follow my lead," Martin replies.

If this is a lead to follow, he isn't very impressed. Small talk about the man's church, asking about the people he killed as if he hadn't laid a hand on them. All he sees is that Martin is making the guy like him, a lot, and that if he has a bombshell to drop that breaks composure, he hasn't a clue about what it's going to be.

"So, Agent Fitzgerald--"

"Call me Martin."

A smile, just a little one. "So, Martin, are you married yet?"

His friend matches the smile exactly, makes him wonder what he had to exactly learn growing up as the son of the Deputy Director. Martin shrugs, tilts his head to the side, leans in all conspiring like.

"I would be, but they won't let us."

Tennyson frowns, tilts his head at the exact same angle as Martin, leans in as well. "But, why not?"

"They say the union isn't sacred, or some other nonsense," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "We're willing to wait them out, though."

And then he places that dismissive hand on Danny's thigh, closer to the groin than not, and spreads his fingers. Looks up at him and just smiles brilliantly, almost as if he loves him, and shifts closer.

Oh. Oh.

Tennyson looks shell-shocked in the corner of his eye, and he leans in to brace himself at the back of Martin's chair with one hand. Is glad he decided to perch on the table instead of sit in a chair like a normal person, because then he wouldn't be able to do this.

"We'll wait forever, won't we?" Martin says, a little breathless and oh god he is good.

He gives his best wicked smile, and leans in to hover next to his best friend's cheek. "As long as it takes, babe."

Their suspect twitches, and they ignore him, Martin leaning in to the soft kiss that he’s planting on his jaw as if this was a normal thing for them. Tennyson says something really, really low in his throat, and he says as distracted as he can, "What was that?" as he moves his face in the area of Martin's mouth.

That is when the full-blown flailing of the arms starts.

Jack stares at them deadpan, the frantic screams of Tennyson being lead to holding still echoing in his ears, just because they were so fucking loud and not because he is still actually hearing them. The guy was lead down to holding almost an hour ago, for the love of all things good and holy.

Martin looks to be having the same problem by the slightly dazed look on his face, so he feels safe in asking Boss to repeat the question, this time a bit slower and a whole lot louder please.

"What," Jack says with his tone laden heavily with exasperation, "did you do to break him?"

"Talked about relationships," says Martin with a grin, still a bit dazed but getting better.

"Relationships," Jack repeats flatly.

Time for him to contribute to the conversation. "Relationships," he confirms with a nod.

Paperwork complete and over with, they both decide to share the lift and leave the building together. Outside, they stop at the curb, and trade amused glances.

Martin grins, leans back his head to look at the cloudy night sky. "The tongue was a little much, Taylor."

He laughs, not because what Martin has said is funny, but because he's sort of pleased that he got to make-out with his best friend, even if it was just until the guy started to scream.

A few raindrops hit his head, and he looks over at Martin's annoyed look. Laughs again, and raises his hand to flag down a cab. "Come on, there's a game on tonight, we'll get pizza."

The younger man brushes the water off of his face, and says "sure."

He still can't wipe the grin off of his face.

[Without A Trace] {18/31} (Danny/Martin) tomorrow comes today

2008-08-18T13:49:38Z

Title: tomorrow comes today
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG, comatose Martin waaah.
Theme & Community: August 18th 08, Centuries before I come to where you are, 31_days
Number: 18/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

He screams in the parking lot of the wilderness reserve, not because they didn't catch the guy--they did, at the very least, do that correctly--but because if he didn't he would tear off his clothing and run naked into the woods, never to be seen again except perhaps by some lost hiker peering up into the trees who would be startled to see some Latin wildman peering down at him.

Jack sort of gives him a look, but says nothing. It was a gamble to bring him on this case, knowing how weird he's been lately, but since he didn't screw it up much he's sure it will count for him rather than against him. Which means more fieldwork, and in turn that diminishes the amount of time spent behind a desk.

Spent behind a desk, thinking.

And Martin has always told him he shouldn't think too much, that he's an intuitive rather than a plotter and planner and general cautious guy, and though at the time he laughed at his friend all evil and condescending, he still remembers the words. He shouldn't think too much, because it will make him crazy.

He was too busy getting Martin's trousers off to say anything coherent then, but right now he says to himself where no one but the trees can hear him, "You were right."

They touch down at Kennedy late at night, sometime in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn't bother to check the actual time, because that would just depress him, and leaves Jack by himself to go flag down a cab and head to Mercy General.

He wonders if he told Boss where he was going, and then decides it doesn't matter if he did or not.

The lights are always blazing at this hospital, always on and beckoning, bring us your tired your injured your downtrodden and slowly dying. He feels like such a fake, entering the building healthy and fit and ready to save the world from the bad men, when inside he feels rotting and unravelling at the edges.

There he goes with the thinking thing again. He shakes his head, jogs up the stairs to level four, ICU, and trudges down the hallway. Some of the doctors recognise him, nod their heads in his direction as they pass, and he manages to return the conciliatory greeting to each and every one.

And then he's at the door to the room, closed as always but still beeping inside. The display in the room's window reads perfect vitals, showing how stable and close to recovery he would be if he wasn't in this coma.

In the end, it wasn't being shot that made him like this. He would recover from that, he always does. And it wasn't even the falling out of the third storey window from the momentum of being shot, he would have had a few more months of recovery, but he'd still be up and around.

Samantha isn't even to blame, though she acts like she is and he treats her like she is, because she was there and she had a gun to her head and she was the one who shouted that got the second guy to turn and pull the trigger right on Special Agent Fitzgerald.

No, it was because he hit his head on the concrete when he landed two months ago, that's why he's laying here with only a smidge of brain activity and no chance of waking up without a miracle. He used to sit all day and watch them check his pupils, blown wide from the trauma and showing how horrific the situation is, but he can't anymore.

He opens the door, walks inside. Sees the machine that breathes for him, the gadgets that monitor every synapse of Martin's brain with red ink on ticker tape. He sits in the single chair, hard plastic and unforgiving to his back, but it isn't as bad as laying in a hospital bed forever and ever, so he'll swallow those complaints down to non-existence, thank you kindly.

He sits there, watches Martin's slack expression with a tube down his throat. There isn't anything he can do, but his hands still shake from the frustration of it all. He wants to shake him, kiss him, wake him up so that they can go home and stay together for ever and ever never to leave again.

There he goes thinking again.

It's the only way he hears Martin's voice anymore, though, so he doesn't stop himself this time.

[Without A Trace] {17/31} (Danny/Martin) banishing the pictures of war

2008-08-17T06:12:50Z

Title: banishing the pictures of war
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Danny Taylor/Martin Fitzgerald
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: NC-17, explicit sexual content and considerable use of crass language.
Theme & Community: August 17th 08, Stop whispering; start shouting, 31_days
Number: 17/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

There is this feeling of just being caught that he has dealt with off and on since he was a child. Choking on apron strings he desperately wants to be free from, tangled in a spider web that holds tight as he struggles, ropes binding him to the floor and just pressing while all he wants to do is breathe.

It's why he can't keep relationships clean, family, friends or lovers included. All he can do is try, and try again, then run away gasping for air leaving the person staring after in complete anger and confusion.

Restriction makes his teeth itch, causes his eyes to go wild and force his arms into flailing about to express how terrifying this all is. He reverts to animalistic instincts when he's trapped, even if he put himself there, and doesn't turn back into a human until he's safe again.

It isn't fun being a social Werewolf, but he does his best to deal with it. And Danny does too.

They have a sort of routine that really does work, for the most part. Leave work separately, meet up at Danny's flat without saying anything to one another beforehand. Talk about their day a little perhaps as soon as they are inside, eat something be it leftovers or takeout, wind up in the bedroom biting and bruising and participating in a general pounding into the mattress.

Whoever has the worst day gets to fuck the other, whoever marks skin the most gets to perform reparations in the shower afterwards.

Martin leaves, goes back to his flat leaving a sleeping Danny in bed, passes out on his own sofa until it is time to wake up and jog a little Get all that running out of his system because the collar around his neck is turning into a choker chain, and it is attached to a leash that leads to his best friend.

They get into work, Danny looking sombre because yet again he wakes up alone, Martin looking frantic because yet again he feels the cords binding him and pulling him in. And then they go to work, get through the shift, and repeat.

In the course of the investigation, a woman is discovered to have worked in a Sweat Shop, New York City style. They clear out the warehouse that the illegal business is running from, inspect the equipment, find a few leads, and disperse.

He and Danny stay behind to look for more clues, as per Jack's orders, and he is a bit nervous because not only is their relationship on the verge of breaking and he just fucking knows it, but because his best friend is looking at him with an odd glint in his eye, and that always spells trouble when it comes to Danny Taylor.

So he edges away, making a show of peering at a brick wall as if there is something interesting there to see.

Danny slams into him, shoves him against the wall roughly and he groans as the man's erection presses against his back and teeth sinks into the junction of his shoulder and neck. Rests his forehead on the cool brick, and forces himself to relax as hands work around to his belt and fumble with the buckle.

"We need to have a conversation," Danny says as he laps at the bite mark he just made with his teeth, sweet and considerate and passive Danny says as he shoves Martin's trousers down and forces his legs apart with a well-placed knee. "I want you to know, we need to have a conversation."

He nods in agreement, moans something like god yes as fingers slick with saliva stretch him just so, and sees the passing thought that they are about to fuck on government time just fly off into the nether verse.

"And we will have that conversation," Danny continues, stretching him wide and leaning over to speak next to his ear, "just not right now."

Pleasurepain hits him as Danny slides in completely, makes him gasp and pant, and he scrabbles at the stone with his fingers to find purchase, something to hold on to. Pull out, thrust in at a different angle, still a burn there because they’ve never done it like this before and he wonders (in a haze of lust) if this means something because doing it raw against a wall in a warehouse should not be a predecessor to Danny and Martin not being Danny and Martin anymore.

Yet another different angle, and he hears himself keen a little as he rocks back into Danny, lets go of the wall to throw his arms backwards and put a bruising grip on the hips that are currently snapping into him. Danny licks him from collar to neck, relishing the new opportunity, nibbles at his jaw, and wraps his hands around Martin’s cock and just squeezes.

He loses himself against the wall, choking off a cry that is swallowed by Danny’s mouth, and feels the shudder sigh release that flows white hot into him.

Leans his forehead against the cool stone and breathes, and when the older man’s hips finally slow to a stop, Danny does the same.

Ever since they got into that fight six months ago, screaming and hitting and trying to in general kill one another right there in the centre of the bullpen, no one looks at them oddly if their suits are a bit crumpled. Because that just means they got touchy and screaming again, that the once close friends are now adversaries who still work together well, so long as they’re not left to their own devices.

If they only knew.

Martin sends thanks to the atmosphere that before he and Danny started this thing they have going, they had that public outburst, because he doesn’t think he could handle the curious looks that they would get otherwise. There are bruises on his neck, merging into one another, and they probably think Danny tried to choke him. Danny’s suit jacket has a rip on the lapel, and they probably think Martin tossed him somewhere by the collar.

They exchange looks, Danny smug and satiated, Martin flat and unemotional, and then adjust their attention to Jack who’s explaining where they might find this girl based on the multiple locations the accredited kidnapper liked to dump his victims.

Parks are out, warehouses are out (he starts a little at this, then winces as the heel of Danny’s shoe digs into his shin under the table), and their most likely location is one of four abandoned stores that used to push the illegal goods.

They get up, agree to their individual assignments with no one teamed up and all going solo, then head out.

Danny is the one who finds the dead woman, and he calls it in carefully via five-way connection, like he’s covering her corpse with something and trying to not disrespect her at the same time.

Case closed, they can finish up and head home now.

Martin sits in the dusty darkness as the call clicks out on his cell phone, and watches the dust motes dance in the dimming light. Wonders what the hell he’s doing, what he’s going to tell Danny, what they’re going to do about all of this.

Danny looks unhappy when he sees him back at the office, the pleased expression gone and replaced with mourning for the dead victim. He approaches him cautiously, stands next to him for a minute, then bumps his shoulder against him softly.

Looks up at his best friend, gives a sympathetic grin, and tilts his head to the side. Says, “You going to be all right, man?”

Danny grins a little back, and nods his head in response.

They’re back at Danny’s flat four hours later, exchanging rough kisses as the leftover pizza heats up, and they only stop groping one another to scarf down the food and then start at it again. Nothing of the promised conversation is made good on, instead of talking they just touch and press close for the comfort. They stumble into the bedroom, landing on the unmade bed with Martin on top so he can lick Danny wherever he wants without anything stopping him.

They fall back into routine, sinking into one another until merged, then Danny falls asleep and Martin stays awake, sticky and freaked and shaking just a little because he doesn‘t know what to do.

He sits up in bed, sheet pooling at his waist, and he just looks at his best friend sleeping the sleep of the exhausted next to him. Just watching the man is enough to make him feel the choker chain tighten, crush his windpipe and remove air from his lungs. He’s being dragged against his will towards Danny in the metaphorical sense, and he fidgets, thinks about leaving, swings his legs over the side and then stops.

Remembers Danny’s whispered words in the warehouse, a mixture of Spanish and chanting mine against his neck breathing hot and hard. Looks over, stares, says do I really want to stop this in his thoughts.

Pulls his legs back up under the sheet, lays down and slides close, then closes his eyes.

Feels sleep approach, and answers the question with a firm no.

The next morning is interesting, because Danny doesn’t know what to do and fumbles through making breakfast, looking at Martin as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear any moment now.

Martin finds himself smiling reassuringly at the older man, and marvelling at the feeling of the choker chain loosening.

He hopes that it will go away completely some day.

[Without A Trace] {16/31} (Danny/Martin) cold, metallic, greenish glow

2008-08-16T12:21:58Z

Title: cold, metallic, greenish glow
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings:
Fandom: Without A Trace
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, OMFG THE WAFF.
Theme & Community: August 16th 08, Evil is a good condition, 31_days
Number: 16/31
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

Note: Title from random Abraham Merritt text (sorry, didn't keep straight which book I took the qoute from).

Yesterday was okay, yesterday was good. He managed to cook something without burning it, made coffee instead of sludge, paid his bills on time and called his sisters for updates on his nieces. He got to pretend that he was a normal person with a normal life, like a bachelor accountant or a kid’s softball team coach.

Today, not so much. He burns a hole through one of his shirts with the iron, rips a tie in half afterwards because he isn’t attentive enough, and gives himself a bruise the size of British Colombia on his hip when he walks into the edge of a kitchen countertop.

And the coffee is back to being sludge, so not even that works anymore.

Yesterday was okay, but today is pure evil.

There is a preliminary report, a status report, and a final report. Every day spent on a case requires that trifecta, every twenty-four hours looking for a person gets fifty pages or more of paper from each agent.

He hits the print button on his keyboard, and swears he can hear trees screaming far off in Brazil or somewhere similar.

Behind him Danny is joking with Sam and Viviane, telling Sam how to get Jack’s attention with Viviane helping in the advice. They laugh and joke, enjoy their own little world, and then Special Agent Danny Taylor tries to include him.

“Martin, any input?”

He leans back so he’s looking at them upside down, his chair creaking to support his weight, and he shrugs. “Drag him to a cabaret and do the burlesque thing.”

All three stop, stare at him with wide eyes.

Sam says, “Cabaret?”

Viviane says, “Burlesque?”

Danny says nothing, shoves his fist into his mouth and shakes instead.

He decides, forget them, and sits correctly in the chair. Ignores the sounds of Danny trying to choke back laughter, and looks for another report to write.

He wishes he was partnered with Jack, because at least the man is professional when travelling to interview a possible witness. As it is, he’s stuck with Danny, who can’t for the life of him stop smiling like a deranged person whenever he says something.

So he eventually decides to say nothing, and ignore the guy.

“So,” Danny says outside the building they need to enter. “What happened this weekend that turned you into Red Buttons?”

He really wishes he was partnered with Jack.

The bruise has taken on a nasty yellow colouration, edged with green and with purple spots throughout. That evening Danny takes one look, whistles, and goes to get him a bag of ice. He lays on the bed, partially covered with the sheet, and stares at the ceiling.

“So,” Danny says, placing the bag on his hip gingerly, “this is what made you funny earlier? A bruise?”

He snarls a little bit, pulls Danny down next to him. Shifts to keep his legs out of the way and still balance the soothing ice, wraps his arms around his best friend’s neck. Distracts the older man with long languid kisses, and just breathes into him.

Pulls back, says, “sure, why not?”

Danny laughs low in his throat, and slides closer. “Will bruises from me do?”

All he does is grin in answer.

[Labyrinth] serve the goblins

2008-08-16T00:46:29Z

Title: serve the goblins
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Jareth the Goblin King
Fandom: Labyrinth
Rating & Warnings: G
For: _calex_, who requested it here
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

The witch wets her lips with a dry tongue, blind eyes crinkling at the sides in the direction of the young King. She has old hands, and they creak loudly as they shuffle the deck with sure movements hampered only by age and decay.

He sits in silence, still water waiting to rise up and conquer whoever destroys its serenity. Watches as she feels the cards out, throws a spread with care, circle one and circle two, final card face up in the centre and her gasp of delight makes his teeth set into a grimace.

“Open flower, blood splatters times three. Five of hearts I see, drawn in the centre for thee.”

Her toothless mouth gapes wide as she smiles, her fingers caressing the card with delicate strokes. “You must open yourself to others, not too much nor too little. See the world above and below, fly high in the sky and crawl down deep in the soil. Learn the source of the land, and then the owls will roam free.”

She taps the card three times with her knuckle, a bell tolls in the distance. “You are young, my lord. You will learn in time.”

He is still, he is silent. He stands and bows, knowing she cannot see. He turns and leaves the tent, breathing in the crisp night air, and sinks down into the ground to return to his kingdom.

His crystal balls, his labyrinth. All proclaimed to be toys, but with this omen, a new way to run the underground.

His lips stretch into a smile, feel tight from disuse and uncomfortable from the unusual action.

No matter, there is plenty of time for practice.

[Labyrinth] (Jareth/Sarah) pace or the patience

2008-08-16T00:28:33Z

Title: pace or the patience
Author: Kjata (makrothumia)
Characters & Pairings: Jareth the Goblin King & Sarah Williams
Fandom: Labyrinth
Rating & Warnings: G
For: misteline, who requested it here.
Disclaimer: Characters, Setting, and Original Content that this fic is based upon belongs to those who own them - Namely, anyone but me.

He tosses her a bauble, spun glass as light as air, and she drops it to the ground to splinter off in millions of shards. This angers him, makes his mouth twist with cruelty and his eyes to glow with lightening, and he thunders at her and gestures at her and does his best to terrify her.

Because terrify her he must, to stop this shattering of his dreams. She needs to catch and hold on to one of those bubbles of light, for that is all he has to offer and he cannot--no, will not-- leave without her grabbing hold and giving physical recognition of all he has sacrificed.

All she does in return is smile, nod, say I’m sorry, let’s try again?

There are so few left, and yet he still pulls out another, bobs it from hand to hand in elegant movements, tells her to concentrate, he won’t stay in ill temper if she pays attention.

Tosses her another, watches it shatter on the hard stone beneath her feet.

Oddly, he wishes he was human so he could cry.

Instead he yells and blusters and makes threats, and then throws her another when she smiles, nods, and says, “I’m sorry, let’s try again?</i>