With Dr. Harris and Jack's approval, and after a fairly restful weekend, Danny returned to work on Monday, slightly nervous. Happily, his first day back went pretty smoothly. There were a few awkward moments with well-meaning co-workers who asked how he was doing, but they accepted his plastered-on smile and "I'm doing good, thanks" and left him alone. Sam seemed more skeptical of his answer, but didn't pry. She and Jack kept a close watch on him, which he pretended not to notice.Instead, he buried himself in phone calls and paperwork, glad to be doing something productive, something that kept his mind occupied. When he went home in the early evening, he deemed the day a success.
The rest of the week passed quickly, and as far as his co-workers could tell, he really was doing as well as he claimed. He was holding his own at the office, and he looked good, thanks to sleep that had become less and less ravaged by insomnia and nightmares.
The people he saw day in and day out had no clue how messed up he really was. They didn't know that the shooting still ripped him up inside so bad that he couldn't bring himself to visit his partner. He'd planned on visiting Fitzgerald that week, but hadn't. And the other man didn't ask him to come by. They instead settled for a couple of nice, harmless phone conversations. How was Martin feeling? Good. How was Danny doing? Great. Did the Knicks have a shot at a title this year?
Polite, trivial, safe small talk. It was all he had to offer, and for now, thank God, it seemed to be enough for Martin.
**
As Danny wrapped up his first week back at work, Martin lay in bed, propped up by pillows, reviewing his first full week at home. He'd spent most of the weekend after his hospital release sleeping or watching TV, getting up only to make an occasional lap around the room, leaning heavily on Denise the entire way. The short trips had wiped him out, although thankfully, they'd proved less difficult and less painful than his little walks at the hospital.
During the week, he'd been allowed out of bed more, in large part because he finally felt strong enough to go to the bathroom alone. He had to use a walker to hold himself up as he stood over the toilet, but it beat the hell out of pissing in a bedpan.
As the days passed, his short jaunts around the bedroom became easier, thanks to the cane resting against the side of his bed. He'd been irritated when his physical therapist presented it to him on Monday.
His initial reaction to meeting Thomas McDonnell that morning had been a good one. The tall, muscular redhead had strode into the apartment dressed in a New York Knicks T-shirt and faded jeans, and had immediately extended a firm, friendly handshake. The man's twinkling blue eyes and easy smile had put Martin at ease, until he unzipped a large black bag and pulled out a cane.
The injured agent had glared at the object. "Maybe you've got me mixed up with one of your other patients. My legs are fine."
The good-natured therapist had laughed, a deep, baritone sound, and stroked his goatee. "Nope. Martin Fitzgerald. Gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. That's you, right?"
He'd nodded, jaw muscles twitching.
"You wanna get around on your own, dontcha?"
Another nod.
"It'll happen a lot faster with this. Your body's weak, and we're gonna work on that. But it'll be awhile before you can walk around a room without feelin' like you're gonna tip over. So ... you can use this -- " Thomas waved the cane in the air " -- or you can spend the next few months havin' people like Denise here hold you up all the time."
Martin had grudgingly accepted the cane, and soon reaped the benefits. While he still needed Denise on one side of him as he walked, he felt far more steady on his feet.
He just wished he wouldn't need the damned cane for so long. A few months, according to Thomas. When he'd pressed the other man to pinpoint exactly when he could ditch the walking aid, McDonnell had shrugged and said they wouldn't know until they got farther along in his physical therapy.
For now, that therapy consisted of short trips around the room, as well as sitting up and getting in and out of bed by himself. He'd never realized how many muscles were involved in those simple tasks. Tasks he now found painful and tiring.
Despite those challenges, physically, he felt better than he had a week ago. He stayed awake for longer periods of time, and the throbbing pain had abated enough that he'd cut back on the Demerol.
Emotionally, he struggled. He didn't suffer from nightmares every time he slept, but he had them enough to make him edgy during the day. During one of Danny's brief phone calls, he'd been tempted to ask if bad dreams plagued his friend, too, but he sensed the other man wasn't up for that particular discussion.
The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he reached over to answer it. "Hello?"
"Hey, Martin."
Vivian Johnson's slow, sweet cadence was music to his ears. Of all of the people he talked to these days, she was his favorite. They had wonderfully relaxed conversations, and he didn't have to worry about her reaction to his physical condition, since they had yet to visit in person.
"Hey, Viv," he said, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Marcus still cooking up a storm over there?"
She chuckled. "Mmm hmm. And he's still obsessed with fish. Good for the heart, you know. Although I could do without having it for breakfast."
Martin laughed.
"So how's the food over there?" Viv asked. "Still bland?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "But don't tell Denise that. She's convinced that she's working wonders with my dietary restrictions."
They settled into a comfortable conversation, until Viv mentioned Danny's visit two days ago. He gripped the phone tighter as a twinge of jealousy ran through him. The only contact he'd had with Taylor since getting out of the hospital were two quick, awkward phone calls consisting of meaningless small talk.
"Martin?"
Viv sounded concerned, and he wondered how long he'd been silent. "Sorry, Viv. Just thinking."
"About?"
He paused, wondering if he should come clean regarding his and Danny's growing distance. Did he have a right to discuss Taylor's troubles without the man's consent? Maybe. If he was careful. If he didn't reveal too much. "I was just wondering how Danny seems to you. If he seems like he's handling everything all right."
"Well, he's happy to be back at work. And he looks good." Viv hesitated. "Martin, what exactly is going on?"
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You know Danny ... he'll say he's all right when he isn't if he thinks that's what everyone needs to hear. But what happened to us ... it was pretty intense. I just want to make sure he's taking care of himself."
*I just want to make sure he's not falling apart.*
"Martin, maybe you should talk to him about this, the next time you see him."
He snorted softly before he could stop himself, then cleared his throat, hoping the other agent hadn't noticed.
She had.
"Martin," she said slowly. "When was the last time you saw Danny?"
Damn. She was good.
He tried to sound casual. "It's been a few days." Or eleven. But who was counting?
"Hmm," Viv murmured, and Martin swore he could hear wheels turning in her head. "Well, whatever's going on with Danny right now, he'll work it out. Try not to worry, okay? You just take care of yourself."
"Yeah. I will."
At this point, there wasn't much else he could do.
Chapter 22
"You look gorgeous, Viviana," Danny greeted, kissing his friend's cheek and sitting next to her on the deep, comfortable couch. "You just keep gettin' more and more beautiful every time I see you."Viv raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Always the charmer, aren't you?"
"I try," he agreed, grinning. "So how are you feeling?"
"Better. The doctor said I'm progressing faster than he expected."
"That's great."
The other agent nodded and cocked her head to the side. "Been a few days since you stopped by. Now that all's said and done, how was your first week back at work?"
"Really good." It was early Sunday afternoon. Danny had last visited midway through the workweek.
"Glad to hear it." Viv adjusted the plump pillow behind her back, wincing a bit. She eyed the cut on his forehead. "That's healing up nicely."
He rubbed at the wound, which had long since scabbed over. "Yeah."
The recovering agent smiled pleasantly. "So, how's Martin these days? I talk to him on the phone, but it's hard to get a good read on him without seeing him in person. How does he look?"
Danny squirmed on the couch, uncomfortable with the prospect of admitting he hadn't seen his partner in quite awhile, and equally uncomfortable with pretending he had.
"Danny? You're looking awfully nervous. Did I say something wrong?"
"Uhh, no."
"Then why do you look like a perp with his hand caught on the murder weapon?"
He stifled a groan and sighed. He could tell her everything was fine, but she probably wouldn't believe him. She was already suspicious. And he really, really didn't want to lie to her. Viv was more than a co-worker, she was a friend, and a damned good one, at that. He felt safe with her.
Confession was good for the soul, right?
"I uh ... I haven't seen Martin in a couple of weeks."
The other agent seemed only slightly surprised by the revelation. "A couple of weeks? Why not?"
"I just ... " Danny's eyebrows drew together as guilt crept over him. "When I look at him ... all I see is him bleeding to death in front of me. There wasn't a damned thing I could do, Viv."
She reached out and placed a hand on his forearm. "From what I've heard, you did plenty. You kept him alive until help arrived."
He shook his head. "I'm not talking about what happened after he got hit."
Viv nodded. "You blame yourself for Martin getting hurt in the first place." She covered his hand in hers. "Danny. It wasn't your fault.
Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away, not wanting to cry in front of her. He still had his pride, no matter how screwed up he was. "I can't just turn off the way I feel."
"Nobody's asking you to, but avoiding him isn't going to make everything better. And it's not fair to Martin." "I know," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "But I don't think I can face him after all of this. I bailed on him, you know? I don't know how to look him in the eye."
Viv hesitated, and then spoke gently. "If the situations were reversed, and Martin showed up at your door and said he's sorry, would it be good enough for you?"
Danny looked down and plucked at a small hole in the knee of his jeans. Would he forgive Fitzgerald? Of course. But his partner wouldn't have done this in the first place. Martin would have sucked it up and kept visiting him, no matter how much it cost him.
"It's not that easy, Viv."
"It is if you want it to be."
**
She'd meant well, but Viv was wrong. Apologizing to Martin wouldn't be easy, because it was something Danny needed to do in person, and he wasn't ready for that. He wanted to be. God, he wanted to be man enough to drive over to Fitzgerald's apartment, knock on the door and just talk to him, face to face.
But he couldn't do it. Not yet.
Instead, he left Viv's house and drove home, dropped heavily onto the couch, and called Martin. They had their usual conversation, except the other man sounded ... off. Danny had the distinct impression that the small talk was no longer enough for his friend. But it was all he could manage.
After they hung up, he hit the sack early, thinking that maybe it'd be best if he didn't call Fitzgerald again for a little while. Their awkward conversations clearly weren't doing much for either of them.
The next morning, he started a new workweek with a visit to Dr. Harris. She asked how he was settling into desk duty, and how he'd been eating and sleeping. Easy questions to answer. It was the next ones that he'd hoped to avoid.
"When we met last, you were feeling responsible for what happened to Martin," Dr Harris said, leaning back in her chair. "Are you still feeling guilty? Is it difficult to be around him?"
If he told her the truth, she might think he wasn't recovered enough, emotionally, to go back in the field. Danny believed a bit of subterfuge was in his best interests. Hopefully, they psychiatrist wouldn't see through it, or learn the truth during any sessions with Martin, at least not until he himself was back in the field. Hell, by that time, maybe he'd have even worked up the courage to visit Fitzgerald.
Danny put on the thoughtful yet slightly pained expression he'd practiced in the mirror at home. "Well, it's tough to see him. I'm sure it'll be awhile before we're back to normal, but I'm definitely feeling better about things."
God bless her, Dr. Harris nodded approvingly and moved on. She was so satisfied with their session that she said he didn't need to return for two weeks. If that meeting went well, any further meetings would be at his request, not FBI mandated.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he left the psychiatrist's office, and was pleasantly surprised when, a few hours later, Jack stopped him in the hallway and said he could return to the field in one week. Danny thanked the older man and returned to his desk, sparing Martin's empty chair a brief, guilty glance before picking up a case file Sam had asked him to review.
Chapter 23
On the day Danny resumed fieldwork, Martin had his first session with Dr. Harris. She stopped by his apartment on the way to her office. Denise, who now worked only part-time, let the psychiatrist in and then went to run some errands.Dr. Harris took a seat in the upholstered chair by the navy-blue couch where the injured agent rested against some throw pillows. She popped open her black leather briefcase to retrieve a legal pad and pen, and then shut it, resting it against a chair leg.
"Thanks for making the house call," Martin said, self-consciously straightening his T-shirt and loose sweat pants. It was decidedly strange having the psychiatrist see him dressed in the casual garb that passed for his wardrobe these days. He felt almost naked without his usual suit and tie.
It was even stranger to meet with the woman in his home, on his turf. She'd offered to come to him for the session, and he'd quickly agreed, rather than go to her office. While his mobility had improved during the past week, it would take a ridiculous amount of time to hobble from the elevator to her work space, and he didn't want his weakness so publicly displayed.
"Now remember what I told you, Martin. This will be a short session today. I want to assess where you're at, and then I'll decide how we should proceed."
"Okay." He cleared his throat nervously. He'd been dreading this meeting, and the ones to follow. He didn't want to explore his inner turmoil with Dr. Harris, or any other shrink, for that matter. There was little choice, though, since their sessions were required.
As he waited for her to speak, he unconsciously slid a hand over his left side.
The psychiatrist noticed the movement and raised an eyebrow. "If you're not up to this, we can reschedule."
He looked at her in puzzlement and then realized where his hand rested. The pain had eased somewhat the past few days -- he'd graduated from Demerol to Tylenol with codeine -- but he often found himself protectively covering the wounded area.
"I'm good," he assured the psychiatrist.
"All right." She folded her hands together, pen still in hand. "Let's just start with that clichéd question. How are you doing?"
Martin smirked. He'd heard that one a lot lately. "Not too bad, considering. I'm getting around better than I was last week, and I'm doing some physical therapy at an outpatient facility."
"That's good, but I'm wondering more about how you're doing emotionally."
"Oh." He paused. How much did he need to tell her? This was only a preliminary session, after all. "Well. Some days are better than others. It's frustrating not being able to do the things I used to do."
"Mmm hmm." Dr. Harris scribbled on the legal pad. "Are you having any nightmares?"
He reluctantly nodded. "Not every night, but yeah, some." "Are they interfering with your sleep?"
"Not too much." The nightmares had eased up since his first week home, probably because he was so wrapped up in his physical recovery.
"And when you think about that night, how do you feel?"
Martin shrugged. "Probably the way you'd expect. Sometimes I'm angry. Sometimes I feel detached from it."
The psychiatrist nodded. "Do you feel frightened?"
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. The session was rapidly heading into soul-baring territory, a place he didn't particularly want to visit just yet. He'd rather wait for their next meeting. Still, he supposed he should answer the question, since Dr. Harris could become a huge roadblock to him returning to work. And he did want to go back ... for the most part.
Sighing, he adjusted his position on the couch, wincing at the pain. Maybe a small admission would satisfy her for now. Did his memories frighten him? "Yeah, a little bit."
"Would you like to talk more about that fear?"
Now would be a good time for someone to call. Or knock on the door.
Since coming home from the hospital, there'd been lots of well-meaning interruptions, to the point where he'd felt a bit claustrophobic. Now, the one time he would gladly welcome a phone call or visitor, there wasn't one.
"Martin?" Dr. Harris prompted.
She was politely pushing him, and he didn't appreciate it. The stress of the past few weeks left him irritable and unable to prevent frustration from edging his voice. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that I was scared that I was going to die? Or that Danny was going to die? Or that sometimes I feel sick when I think about going back to work, because I don't know if I'll be able to do my job the same way I used to?"
The outburst left him slightly breathless, agitated and somewhat embarrassed. He dropped his head and closed his eyes.
"Martin." Dr. Harris drew his attention back to her. "I want you to tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. I'm required to be here so we can evaluate your mental health and get you back to work. But I'm also here because I want to help."
The tension eased a bit as he saw her sincerity. He nodded and sighed. "I guess I'm not really up for this today," he apologized. "I wasn't expecting to get into a lengthy discussion."
The psychiatrist smiled kindly. "Well, we'll save the lengthy discussion for next time." She pulled a palm pilot out of her briefcase and consulted it. "I'd like to have weekly sessions. Do Tuesdays work for you? We can start next week, say at 1 o'clock?"
He shook his head. "Actually, Tuesdays I have some pretty involved physical therapy sessions. I doubt I'll be up for much conversation."
Dr. Harris again consulted her palm pilot. "Wednesdays okay, then? Same time?"
He nodded, and she gathered her things and stood up, leaning down to shake his hand.
"Hang in there, Martin. It'll get easier."
He smiled politely until she closed the door behind her, and then turned to stare out the living room window.
God, he hoped she was right.
Chapter 24
Nothing like a good chase to get the blood pumping and the adrenaline flowing.As the door swung shut, Danny slammed it open and raced onto the porch, gun raised in his right hand. He looked left and caught a glimpse of Dominic Santini disappearing around the corner of the two-story home. Taylor pounded down a short flight of stairs onto the unkempt lawn. The afternoon sun shone overly bright after spending the last few minutes searching the darkened house, and he squinted as he sped after the fleeing man.
"Damnit!" he cursed as the suspect careened around yet another corner of the house, into the backyard. "Santini!" he yelled. "Give it up!"
As he raced toward the back, he heard heavy footsteps behind him and spared a brief glance over his shoulder to see Jack, who'd been upstairs when Santini bolted from the house. The older man's determined features became alarmed as he yelled his agent's name.
"Danny! Look out!"
Danny turned around just in time to see a large piece of plywood coming at his head. He ducked as it whooshed over him, then straightened up and trained his gun on Santini. "Drop it! Now!"
The other man threw the piece of wood to the side and raised his hands, brown eyes wide.
"Put your hands behind your head!" Danny thundered. "Turn around and face the wall!" He waited for Santini to obey his orders, and then pressed the man's head into the bricks and pinned him there with his left arm. Breathing heavily, he nudged his gun into Santini's back. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to screw around with law enforcement?"
"Danny!" Jack barked, drawing his attention. "Cuff him."
As Malone stepped closer, gun raised to cover their suspect, Danny pulled back and holstered his weapon. His hands trembled slightly as he yanked a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and slapped them around Santini's wrists.
"Hey, I didn't do nothin'!" the other man protested as he was led away from the house. "I didn't take that guy! All I did was ask him for the money he owed my boss."
"We'll talk all about it," Jack said, holstering his gun. "But at the least, we've got you on extortion and assaulting a federal agent. So I suggest you shut up and think damned hard about how loyal you're gonna be to your boss. Things will go a lot easier if you cooperate with us."
When they reached the car, Danny put a hand on Santini's head, guided the man into the vehicle, and shut the door. His breathing had returned to normal, and his hands no longer shook, but adrenaline still coursed through him. He turned to find his boss a bit too close for comfort, eyes flashing, jaw muscles twitching.
"What the hell was that all about?" Jack growled.
"What?"
"You shoving your gun in that guy's back. He was unarmed, Danny."
"He tried to whack me with that slab of wood!"
"And the second he dropped it, you should have cuffed him instead of playing Dirty Harry."
Danny clamped his mouth shut, bristling at the criticism. What the hell was Jack's problem? Okay, maybe he'd been a little aggressive, but it wasn't like he was going to plug the guy.
The older agent leaned closer, voice lethally quiet. "If you're not ready to be out here yet, tell me now."
He'd been in the field for three days, but this had been his first physical altercation with a perp. All in all, he thought he'd handled it pretty well. Apparently his boss didn't agree. "I'm fine."
"Yeah? You sure about that?" Jack backed up a step. "Because from what I saw, it looks like you're more interested in proving a point than solving our case."
Danny's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I know it's hard getting back into the swing of things. After what's happened, you're entitled to be a little jumpy. But damn it, don't let it control you." The older man turned away and yanked open the driver's-side door before eyeing his agent one last time. "And don't make me regret putting you back in the field."
As Malone got into the car, Danny blew out a frustrated sigh. Had he gone that overboard with Santini?
Maybe.
Probably.
Okay, yes. Yes, he'd been too aggressive. Usually, he could control his hot-headed impulses when he was working a case. But given what he'd been through so recently, it might be awhile before life-threatening situations didn't make him edgy.
He rounded the front end of the car to the passenger side and got in, sliding his eyes to his boss, who stared out the front window. "Sorry, man," he apologized quietly. "I got a little carried away. It won't happen again."
Jack met his gaze. "See that it doesn't," he ordered, putting the car into drive and pulling into traffic.
Danny looked out the window as oncoming vehicles passed by. "I'll do my best," he murmured.
Chapter 25
When Danny arrived home that night, it was to a ringing phone. He snatched up the cordless receiver, surprised to hear his brother's voice on the other end. Rafie rarely called him. Their discussions were usually in person, at the prison where Alvarez was doing time on drug-possession charges."Hey, Rafie. How you doin'?"
"Not too bad. Counting the days until I'm outta here."
He winced at the longing in the other man's voice. Because Rafie had violated his parole a few months ago, he'd be in prison for a while. He'd miss the birth of his second child and would not see his son, Nicky, assume the role of big brother.
"How are you, Danny? I haven't seen you in a few weeks."
"I'm sorry I haven't been by in a while," Danny apologized, flicking on the kitchen lights and snagging a Coke from the refrigerator. "I meant to come by last week, but things have been hectic."
He went into the living room and shrugged out of his suit jacket, laying it over the arm of the couch before sitting down.
"So ... " Rafie prompted. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Work good?"
"Yeah. Pretty good." Danny frowned as he recalled his earlier altercation with Santini. And Jack.
"You sure you're all right, bro?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure." He popped the top off his Coke and took a long pull. "I'm great."
Rafie paused, as if unsure how to proceed. "Look, I know we've had our problems, but you've really come through for me lately, so if you need to talk ... "
Danny settled into the couch and sighed. It had been a long day, and he really didn't want to spill his guts. He just wanted to chill for a while.
"I'm not trying to get in your face," Alvarez said. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
The agent's lips curved up as he imagined the tough, yet concerned, expression on his brother's face. Rafie's face ... one that looked more and more like their father's, as the years passed. A flash of their dad, seconds before that fateful car accident, made Danny's mouth go dry.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, silent and unmoving, before his brother's voice pulled him out of dark memories.
"You all right?"
Danny shifted on the couch, placing one elbow on the armrest and rubbing his hand over his mouth. He hadn't planned to get into any deep discussions with Rafie, but realized that he wanted to talk to him. Needed to talk to him. Needed to confess some of the guilt that gnawed at his soul.
"You remember I told you about mami and papi's car accident?" he asked. "That they were fighting, and when I tried to stop them, that's when we crashed?"
"Yeah."
"I used to wonder if maybe I could have done something different, you know? Maybe if I hadn't tried to get papi to stop yelling, he and mami would still be alive." He shook his head. "But I realized a couple of weeks ago that there probably wasn't anything I could have done that would have saved them. Papi took his eyes off the road before I said anything, and even if I'd kept my mouth shut, he still might have hit that median."
"That's true, man."
Danny paused. "The irony is, even though I know I probably couldn't have prevented that accident, it doesn't make me feel any better. It just makes me feel ... powerless. Like I have no control over what happens around me. Or to me."
"I've been there, bro," Rafie said grimly. "More than once. Watched everything goin' on in my life, and felt like nothin' I did would make a damned difference."
Of course his brother would know, would understand, how he felt. The man had endured more than his share of difficulties as a child and adult. Trying to keep their father from beating on everyone, fighting a drug addiction, struggling to get -- and stay -- out of prison so he could provide for his family. Alvarez had gone through more in his thirty-nine years than some men experienced in a lifetime.
"Rafie, how do you deal with it?"
The other man snorted. "C'mon, man. You know the answer to that. How many times have you said that damned prayer in AA?"
The Serenity Prayer. Every addict knew it by heart. Danny's AA group recited it once a month, and he carried a tattered copy in his wallet. He'd heard the words, said the words, hundreds of times. During those first few AA meetings he'd attended, they'd been of such comfort. Now, they were so rote, he didn't even stop to consider their meaning.
Rafie recited the prayer. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
As the words soaked in, Danny smirked. "Guess I'm not too good at that acceptance thing, huh?"
Amusement tinged the older man's response. "Can't be perfect all the time, little brother. But I'll tell you this much." His voice grew serious. "You gotta make peace with what happened. You were just a little kid."
He nodded slowly. "I know, man. I know."
"And you gotta make peace with what happened a few weeks
ago, too. Don't let it eat you up inside."
Danny swallowed hard, knowing his brother was right, but feeling unworthy of a reprieve in his suffering over the shooting. Surely he didn't deserve to move on until he could make things right with Martin? He needed to see his friend and apologize for abandoning him during his recovery. He hadn't visited Fitzgerald since that day at the hospital, and hadn't talked to him in a week and half.
But he didn't think he could face him yet.
How much of a coward was he?
Rafie's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Promise me, man, that you won't keep beating yourself up over all this stuff."
"I promise to try ... I'll try."
After they hung up, Danny pulled out his copy of the Serenity Prayer, focusing on that one little phrase: "accept the things I cannot change."
He knew those words embodied a key part of the healing process. He had to accept that he couldn't always control his life, no matter how badly he wanted to or how hard he tried.
But it was one thing to believe those words, and entirely another to put them into practice.
Chapter 26
Martin rinsed his hair one last time and turned off the shower. He opened the sliding-glass door and snagged a thick towel, rubbing it over his head and neck before patting dry the rest of his body. He moved carefully, trying to prevent the sharp hurt that usually accompanied bending over and straightening up. It raced across him anyway, overlapping the constant ache that plagued him, even six weeks after the shooting. He grit his teeth until the pain leveled off, and then stepped out of the shower onto the bath mat.As he hung the towel to dry, he glimpsed himself in the large rectangular mirror over the sink and let his gaze wander to the two dark pink scars on his chest and stomach. They would fade over time, but never go away. A reminder, forever, of that fateful night.
Sighing, he slowly shuffled into the bedroom and eased on a pair of boxers and an undershirt, wincing at the burning that accompanied his actions. He'd be glad when he could perform simple tasks without hurting, but that wouldn't happen for a while yet.
Moments like these frustrated him. It was difficult to be patient with his slow but steady progress. He didn't know if he would fully recover. Dr. Gould had said his wounds might always ache to some extent, perhaps after heavy physical exertion or if he received a hard blow to the injured area. And his digestive tract might never be the same. He might not be able to tolerate spicy or highly fatty foods anymore. Only time would tell if he'd be 100 percent again. He hated the uncertainty of it all.
Martin finished dressing and moved stiffly toward the bathroom, throwing a dirty look at the cane leaning against the wall, just outside the door. He couldn't walk far without the damned thing. It had become a symbol of his weakness, something he depended on and cursed at the same time.
Once inside the bathroom, he again surveyed his reflection in the mirror, and frowned. The dark brown suit hung loosely over his slight frame, 15 pounds lighter than it had been before the shooting. It would take a few months to gain the weight back since he didn't have a great appetite, due in large part to frequent indigestion, no matter which foods he ate.
His face was a bit wan. He needed to spend some serious time in the sun. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. He'd had it cut over the weekend, and wondered if maybe the barber had been a bit too ambitious with the shears. The short hair, once a flattering style for his face, now seemed to only accentuate his haggard features.
Staring critically at his reflection, Martin realized he couldn't hide the truth from himself or anyone else. He looked like hell. Too pale, too gaunt, too hunched over. Too ... not himself.
This was so not the way he wanted to look on his first day back at work.
God, he was nervous.
He had mixed feelings about his return. On the one hand, it was a step toward reclaiming his life. He'd grown tired of sitting around at home, reading books or channel surfing or just staring off into space. Work would give him something meaningful to do, and he desperately needed that. Needed to be useful. Needed to be needed, even if all it entailed was running a plate through the DMV or doing simple phone work.
On the other hand, he worried about how he'd hold up over the course of the day. Would his still-tender injuries prove so draining that he'd have to leave early? It could happen, and if it did, could he make a low-key exit? Or would his co-workers watch his every move, unwanted sympathy sickly sweet on their faces?
And just how would everyone at the office treat him, especially the people he didn't closely work with? Most of those encounters would undoubtedly be awkward, with the agents pretending not to notice his cane or stumbling over their words.
His team members would probably have a varied response to his return.
Viv would be cool. They'd spoken often on the phone, and she'd stopped by a week ago. She hadn't been fazed by his appearance.
Jack would probably be all right, too. Martin hadn't talked to him much during his recovery, but the gruff man wasn't the overly sentimental type, so their initial meeting should go well.
Sam would be surprised to see him. She wasn't expecting him back until Wednesday, but he'd been approved to return a couple of days early. Hopefully, she'd be so startled by his early appearance that she wouldn't focus on the cane. Although she'd visited him several times since his release from the hospital, he'd never mentioned the walking aid, and in fact had stowed it out of sight when she came by. He wanted her friendship, not her pity.
Danny ... how would Danny react? They hadn't seen each other since shortly after the shooting, and hadn't talked on the phone in weeks. During their last call, it had been difficult to go along with the meaningless chatter that had become the norm for their conversations. To pretend that things were okay when they weren't.
Today would be the first time they'd been in the same room in far too long, and Martin hoped it wouldn't be as awkward as he feared. Maybe now that he was up and around, looking far better than the last time his partner had seen him, things would fall into place. The distance that had grown between them would recede, and before they knew it, they'd be working side by side with ease, making smart-ass remarks about his extensive knowledge of alien conspiracy theories or Danny's taste in women, or whatever they felt like picking on at that particular moment.
It could happen.
Couldn't it?
Chapter 27
Danny strode down the hallway, flipping through the file in his hands. Ryan Wallace, their latest missing person. Just a kid. He shook his head as he approached the elevator, hearing it ping and the doors swoosh open. He slowed his pace, reading one last line in the preliminary report before looking up in time to see Martin heading down the hallway in the opposite direction. The other man didn't even notice him.He caught only a glimpse of Fitzgerald's profile, but it was enough to see the strained expression on his face. Danny stood frozen, chest tightening, the file in his hands forgotten, and watched his partner's slow, careful gait, aided by the cane in his right hand. A cane? When had he started using a cane?
As the still-healing agent made painstaking progress toward his desk, a cold knot formed in Danny's stomach. His friend was hurting, and he wished, for the hundredth or thousandth or millionth time, that he could have protected Martin that night, could have kept him from harm.
He should say something, shouldn't he? After all, he'd rehearsed this moment a dozen times since learning that today would be Fitzgerald's first day back at work. He'd say hi, and apologize for his behavior these last few weeks. God willing, his partner would forgive him, and they'd move on. Get back to normal.
But he couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only stare at Martin's steadily retreating back and then slink into the elevator, postponing the inevitable for just a little while longer.
**
Danny didn't run into Martin again until a few hours later. The circumstances were strangely similar to his earlier experience. He was again walking down a hallway with a file in his hand, and just as before, his partner had no idea he was nearby.
Fitzgerald sat in an office, interviewing Ryan Wallace's mother. Danny paused and watched the other man say something to Mrs. Wallace, reach for the cane and lever himself up, grimacing. Taylor's heart constricted, and he considered leaving before his friend spotted him, but it was well past time to stop running away.
Martin deserved better.
As the blue-eyed agent exited the room and closed the door behind him, Danny took a few steps forward and forced a smile to his face. "Hey."
The other man smiled back. "Hey."
"How've you been?" His smile disappeared as he briefly eyed the cane.
"I'm okay."
Danny nodded. "Good," he said, although he didn't believe his partner, given the man's rather pasty complexion. "Umm, tough case to come back to, huh?"
Shadows crossed the other agent's features as he watched Mrs. Wallace weep into a Kleenex. "Yeah, sure is," he agreed quietly.
Danny took a small breath and expelled it. *It's now or never, Taylor. Get off your ass already.*
"Look, Martin, umm ... " He looked down and then met his friend's gaze. He didn't know if he could make up for his actions -- or lack thereof -- these past few weeks, but he had to try. His features softened, eyes earnestly searching his partner's face as he continued. "I'm sorry that I haven't come to see you in a while."
Fitzgerald smiled reassuringly. "C'mon, man, it's no worries," he replied, shaking his head. "I mean, I was, uhh ... I was kind of out of it anyways. So ... it's ... it's cool."
"Cool." Danny breathed in a sigh of relief, grateful for his friend's graciousness. "All right." He motioned with his file. "I'm going to head back to my desk. I want to finish this. All right?"
"All right. Good to see you."
He threw one last glance at Martin and headed for his desk. He'd finally done it. He'd come face to face with Fitzgerald, and the world hadn't ended. It had hurt to see the pain and exhaustion lining the other man's face, but he'd found the presence of mind to carry on a brief conversation and say he was sorry.
Most important of all, Martin had accepted his apology.
So why did he feel as though things were not entirely settled between them?
Chapter 28
As Jack went back to his office, Martin sat at his desk, eyes closed, processing what the older man had just told him."I'm going to add a new agent to the squad."
"Is it ... because of me?"
"No. We're just spread too thin. It's starting to take its toll. I thought it was necessary."
Martin opened his eyes and rubbed a hand over his mouth, pressing it against his lips as he fought the twisting in his gut. It didn't matter how his boss tried to spin it. The new hire was tied to his injuries. He was running at half speed, his contributions to their investigations limited until he got back in the field.
Before he could lapse into a pity party, he reminded himself that he wasn't the only agent whose health issues had the team at less than full strength. Viv wasn't 100 percent, either, and Jack was keeping her desk-bound as much as possible.
And then there was Danny, whose earlier actions with Ryan Wallace may very well have figured into Malone's decision. When Sam had returned an hour ago to fill out her report, she'd told Martin that despite Jack's instructions to sit tight if they found Ryan, Danny had approached the teenager and tried to talk him down. The youth had pushed the detonator on the bomb anyway, but luckily it hadn't worked, or the kid and most of the Missing Persons Unit would be dead.
From what Sam had said, their boss had been pretty pissed off, convinced that Danny was trying to get himself killed.
Was that true? Did Taylor have some sort of death wish? Or did he think that because he'd survived the shooting a few weeks ago, he was now invincible? Or maybe he'd simply tried to do his job the best way he knew how, and Jack had overreacted.
Whatever the case, the twisting in Martin's stomach grew as he considered his partner's state of mind. They'd had a fairly decent conversation earlier, but although he'd accepted Danny's heartfelt apology, the other agent had seemed a bit uneasy. Something was off.
He leaned forward and shut down his computer, grimacing at the sharp pinpricks up and down his side. He picked up the phone and called a cab, unable to drive the always-frenzied New York streets for a while yet because of his slow reflexes. Once he'd made the arrangements he stood up, gathered his things and snagged the cane off the back of his chair.
As he slowly approached the elevator, Martin bit back a groan. The ever-present ache had become a steady throb. He'd love to take a couple of painkillers, but as tired as he was, they'd only muddle his thoughts, and he needed a clear head for what he was about to do.
For what he should have done weeks ago.
Chapter 29
In the darkness of his living room, with only the glow of the entertainment center's digital readouts providing illumination, Danny launched into a series of push-ups. Sweat had already collected over his bare chest and back and dampened the waistband of his gray sweatpants, the result of the twenty-minute run he'd just completed. A pair of headphones connected to his iPod rested over his ears, Nirvana's frenetic music fueling his movements. The muscles in his arms flexed as he raised his body and then lowered it, nose just inches from the carpet. Up and down, again and again, ignoring the steady burn in his lower back. He had the beginnings of a bruise there, from when Jack had slammed him into a police car a couple of hours ago.He breathed heavily as he continued the push-ups, sweat dripping off his forehead and dampening the floor as Malone's earlier, heated words played in his head.
"We had a chance to talk that kid down, and now he has to live the rest of his life knowing that he pressed that button! And so do you!"
Danny squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered Jack jabbing a finger into his chest as he continued his tirade.
"You keep screwing up, and you're going to be doing brick time in two seconds flat! Do not mess with me!"
Completing one last push-up, he rested on the floor, panting. He turned off the iPod and removed the headphones, setting the unit aside and listening to his heart pound in time with his breathing.
Loud knocking startled him, and his eyes flew open.
"Danny? Are you in there?"
Martin. Martin? It was almost 7:30 p.m. Shouldn't he be home resting? He had to be wiped out from his first day back at work.
"Just a sec," he called, pushing himself to his knees as his chest heaved from the workout. He stood up, ignoring protesting muscles, and flicked on the living room and kitchen lights. He then opened the door to reveal his partner leaning heavily on his cane, a pinched expression on his face. "You okay?" he asked somewhat breathlessly, moving aside to let the other man enter.
After coming in, Fitzgerald turned around. "Funny, I was going to ask you that question."
As he closed the door, facing away from Martin, he heard his partner's sharp intake of breath.
"What the hell happened to your back, Danny?"
He froze, body tensing, and then slowly turned around. "It's nothing," he said, swiping sweat off his brow, working to settle his breathing.
"It doesn't look like nothing." Fitzgerald came closer for a better look and frowned at the angry red and purple mottling.
"It's no big deal, man." Danny backed away and waved a dismissive hand. "Really. Just got a little banged up earlier when Ryan detonated the bomb and I dove out of the way."
The lie slipped out easily. He didn't want to rehash his altercation with Jack.
"You should put some ice on it," Martin suggested, shifting his weight and grimacing.
Fitzgerald's skin had that same pasty white color he'd sported during their earlier conversation in the hallway. His mouth was set in a thin line, and he gripped the cane a little too tightly.
Danny motioned to the living room. "You want to sit down?"
The other man nodded and slowly moved toward the couch. As he gingerly lowered himself onto it, a small gasp escaped his lips. He let his cane and messenger bag slide to the floor next to him.
Danny cringed as he watched his friend. "No offense, man, but you look like hell. Shouldn't you be at home, taking it easy?"
Martin shook his head. "Not until we talk."
Damn. He'd been right earlier. The other man had accepted his apology, but things weren't settled between them. Fitzgerald wanted to hash things out.
Danny didn't. He wanted to turn his music back on and exercise some more, until he was so exhausted that he dropped into bed and fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow.
"It's been a long day, Martin. You sure this can't wait until tomorrow?"
"No. It can't."
He put his hands on his hips, leaning to one side as he studied his partner. There was no mistaking the stubborn set of his jaw. Fitzgerald had something to say, and he wanted to say it now.
"Give me a few minutes to clean up, all right?" Danny asked. "I'm just gonna grab a quick shower. You need anything first? Something to drink?"
"Some water would be great, thanks."
After retrieving the other man's drink, he headed for the shower, hoping the wet warmth would ease his tight muscles and relax the knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter 30
As Danny took a shower, Martin removed his jacket, loosened his tie and leaned back on the couch. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the burning in his side. Just a little while longer, and he'd take some medicine. He had to finish talking to his partner first. Otherwise, the pills might knock him out mid-conversation. And that would be embarrassing and counterproductive.Ten minutes later Danny returned, clad in a pair of black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He dropped into the recliner as Martin carefully straightened up on the couch, and for a few moments, the two men stared awkwardly at each other.
"Thought you wanted to talk, Fitzgerald?" Taylor prompted, lips turning up into a wry smile.
"I do. Just trying to figure out exactly what to say." He paused. "I wanted to make sure you're all right. I heard Jack came down on you pretty hard earlier."
A flash of irritation crossed the other man's features. "Yeah. He didn't approve of how I handled things."
"Sam said he thinks you're trying to get yourself killed." Martin stared intently at his partner. "Are you?"
"No," Danny returned tersely. "I'm not suicidal, all right? I was just trying to help. I guess ... "
"You guess what?" Martin pressed, shifting his weight on the couch and biting his lip at the sharp twinges that resulted.
The other agent frowned. "Are you sure you're okay, man?"
"This isn't about me," Martin said tightly, patience wearing thin. It had been a long, tiring, frustrating, painful day. "It's about you."
"I just -- "
"Don't."
"C'mon, man. You look like you're really hurting -- "
"And you're trying to change the subject."
"No, I'm not."
Danny seemed sincere, eyes full of worry, but Martin didn't have time for the man's concern. He didn't know how much longer he could last without his damned pills. He took a deep breath and expelled it, trying to ignore the deep throbbing in his side.
"Danny, what were you going to say before?"
After a long pause, Taylor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "When I saw Ryan sitting there with that detonator in his hand, I thought I could help. I was wrong." He chuckled bitterly. "I couldn't keep him from pressing that detonator anymore than I could keep you from getting shot or my dad from crashing the car."
As the dark-eyed agent looked down at his hands, clenched tightly together in his lap, Martin's earlier frustration gave way to compassion. Had anyone realized the extent of his partner's wounds from the shooting? That they went beyond that tiny cut on his forehead and into his very soul?
"You're not God, Danny. You can't keep everyone safe all of the time."
The other man's head snapped up. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked hoarsely.
"I don't know. Do you? If you really, truly know that, then why are you tearing yourself up inside?"
"Because knowing it and accepting it are two different things."
Seconds ticked by as Martin absorbed his friend's words, understanding the battle Taylor had waged since the shooting. What man enjoyed feeling as though he had no control over his life? He shifted on the couch, trying to relieve the unrelenting pain in his side, but succeeding only in aggravating it. Weariness tugged at him and he rubbed his eyes. He was fading, but he still had so much to say.
"Danny, I'm sorry."
His partner's brow creased in confusion. "What are you sorry for?"
"For not being a better friend." He shook his head slightly. "These last few weeks, I knew you were hurting, and I thought the best thing I could do for you was just ... leave you alone. Let you have some time to work through things. But I was wrong. I should've made you to talk to me. As your friend, I should've been there for you, even if you didn't want me to be."
The other man chuckled softly. "So I feel guilty for not coming to see you, and you feel guilty for not making me come see you. We're quite the pair, aren't we?"
"Yeah. We sure are."
They were quiet for a moment before Danny spoke, eyes soft with compassion. "You had a lot to deal with these last few weeks. If anybody needed to make the first move, it was me."
"Well, the bottom line is, I'm here now. And I want to help, if I can."
Frowning, Taylor stood up and walked behind the couch, staring out the small window at the inky darkness. "I don't know how you can help," he murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I think this is something I have to figure out on my own."
Martin sighed heavily and carefully got up, ignoring the twinge in his side and using the couch for support as he slowly moved next to his partner. "Seems to me like going it alone hasn't worked too well."
The other man nodded ruefully and turned toward him. "It's like I said before. I know that what happened wasn't my fault, but I'm having a hard time accepting that I had no control over things. That I couldn't protect you, or my parents."
"So you're stuck in the past, and I'm stuck in the future." At Danny's confused expression, Martin continued, needing to share his fears with the one person who could understand them. "I think about what happened that night. A lot. But I think more about what's going to happen next. When will I feel good, I mean really good, again? And what happens when I go back in the field? The first time someone pulls a gun on me, am I going to freeze up or ... or just snap?"
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Taylor agreed, eyes distant. "Can't say I'm eager to get involved in a shootout anytime soon."
Martin leaned against the back of the couch. God, he was tired. "We really are quite a pair, aren't we?"
"Yup ... So where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," he sighed, wincing at the steadily increasing throbbing in his side. "I suppose the easy answer is we take things one day at a time."
Danny smirked. "Is that you or Dr. Harris talking?"
"Both," he replied, resting more of his weight on the couch as the day's events sapped his strength. "But it's true. I need to stop worrying about what might happen, and you need to stop worrying about what did happen. If we can't do that, then Dornvald might as well have killed both of us that night."
The other man's eyes shaded with pain. "You sure have a way with words, Fitzgerald ... But you're right." He shook his head. "I just wish this wasn't so hard. For both of us."
"Me too." Martin took a deep breath and let it out. He really, really needed to sit down. And he really, really needed his pills. "Just promise me one thing, okay?"
"What's that?"
"Don't shut me out anymore."
Danny smiled. "I promise."
Martin nodded, satisfied, and took a step forward. The room tilted, and his vision dimmed. "Danny?" he gasped weakly. His legs buckled, and then a strong hand clamped onto his left elbow and a firm arm wrapped around his waist, grasping his right hip. As he sank to his knees, an inferno roared up and down his side, stealing his breath away, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
"Martin? Martin!"
He couldn't speak, could only pant harshly as he waited for someone to extinguish the fire.
"I'll call an ambulance."
He weakly grabbed Danny's arm before the other man could move. "No," he grated out. "I'm all right."
"All right?! You almost passed out on me!"
His vision began to clear and he glanced at his friend's concerned face. "Just get me ... to the couch."
It took a few minutes, but with Danny's gentle, yet steady, support, he soon found himself lying down, feet propped up on a pillow, right hand protectively covering his injured side. He shut his eyes, trying to even out his breathing. Trying not to moan, groan, or God forbid, whimper. After several long moments passed, the dizziness abated and he dragged his eyes open to see his partner kneeling on the floor, reaching out to touch his forehead.
"No fever," Martin protested weakly, pushing his friend's hand away.
The other man eyed him uncertainly. "I still think I should call an ambulance."
"No. Just overdid it." He groaned, unable to stop himself from giving voice to his pain. "Can you ... get my pills? In my bag."
Seconds later, Danny handed him his medication and a glass of water. Once he downed the painkillers, he gave the glass back to Taylor, who placed it on the table before asking if he should at least call a doctor. Martin shook his head, and they sat quietly for a few minutes, Danny watching nervously as his breathing returned to normal and the fire in his side cooled to a more tolerable throbbing.
"I'm all right," Martin murmured, covering his eyes with the back of an arm. "I was just overdue for my pills. And I didn't eat dinner yet. And I'm kinda tired."
The other man snorted. "Oh, is that all?"
Uncovering his face, he shrugged, wincing for what must have been the hundredth time since he got up that morning.
Danny smiled in fond exasperation. "You're a real genius, man," he chided. "Overdoing it on your first day back."
"Hey, I was just trying to help," Martin protested, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Not my fault you needed a house call."
Taylor rolled his eyes and stood up, studying him critically. "You still dizzy?"
"No."
"Is the pain getting better?"
"Yeah."
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Martin."
He groaned. Danny had morphed into a mother hen before his eyes. "God, is this what it would have been like if you'd been visiting me these last few weeks?"
"You have to eat."
Martin grimaced. Food didn't sit well with him these days, but if he didn't eat something, he'd probably pass out the next time he tried to stand up. And he had a feeling Danny would happily call an ambulance if that happened.
"Got any soup?"
Chapter 31
Twenty minutes later, Danny took a half-empty bowl of vegetable beef soup to the kitchen. He'd argue with Martin to finish the meager meal, but the man looked so exhausted that he didn't want to push.When he returned to the bedroom, Fitzgerald was easing himself down to lay flat on the mattress. He narrowed his eyes at Danny. "If you tell anyone I was in your bed ... " The threat trailed off as he yawned widely.
As the soup had heated, Danny had changed the sheets and pillowcases on his bed and ushered Martin into it. The fatigued agent had protested the entire way, a slight blush staining his cheeks as he asked for a ride home, saying he was fine and didn't need to be coddled. Danny had simply smiled and told him to shut up, that Fitzgerald wasn't going anywhere until he knew he was all right. And in the meantime, he'd lie down in a real bed, and not on a lumpy couch. Or did he need that ambulance after all?
"Martin, I swear I won't tell a soul about this, as long as you promise to set me up with that pretty ICU nurse from the hospital. The curvy blonde," Danny said, making an hourglass motion in front of him.
The other man chuckled and yawned, eyes heavy-lidded, looking about ready to fall asleep. "You know, you can call me a cab."
"Shut up."
Martin glared at him and, a few seconds later, shut his eyes.
Danny watched his friend, surveying the pale face and thin body. An image of Fitzgerald lying on the street, bleeding copiously, flashed in front of him. He shuddered. Too close. It had been much, much too close. But his partner was alive. They both were. And it was time he focused on that, instead of dwelling on things he couldn't change.
The other man stirred and sluggishly opened his eyes, forehead furrowing in concern when he saw Danny's pensive expression. "You okay, man?"
"Yeah. Just get some sleep."
"It's not too late," Martin murmured, eyes sliding closed. "You can still call a cab."
Danny shook his head and chuckled softly. "Give it up, Fitzgerald." He listened to his friend's breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep and then adjusted the bed sheet, pulling it up a bit. Satisfied, he quietly left the bedroom, easing the door shut behind him.
He went to the living room and dropped into the recliner, turning on the TV and keeping the volume low so it wouldn't wake the other man. After aimlessly channel surfing for a few minutes, he tossed the remote aside and walked over to the entertainment center. He'd deposited his wallet there earlier, before starting his push-ups. He picked it up and flipped it open, pulling out the tattered copy of the Serenity Prayer. Sitting back down, he read it aloud.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
Danny's lips curved up in a small smile, and his thoughts drifted to Martin's question a few minutes ago.
"You okay, man?"
"Yeah."
And he was. For the first time in a long time, he was okay.
End
December 2005