Stumble
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Without a Trace
Pairing: Danny/OFC
Spoilers:
Post ep for episode 2X17,
Gung-Ho
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo (http://helsinkibaby.ahkay.net) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: Danny pays a night visit.
Notes: For the LiveJournal Multifandom1000 open week challenge, back to #4, Someone pays a night visit. I think ‘twas medie who wanted more of this particular setup.
The knowledge that no good news arrives at three in the morning has her heart in her throat as she reaches for the doorknob, wrenching the door open. It’s almost a relief when the insistent banging stops, but relief vanishes quickly when she sees her ex-fiancé standing there, a wild look in his eyes. “Danny,” she gasps, “It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.” He leans against the doorframe, and she looks him up and down, takes in the wide eyes, the dark shadows underneath, five-o-clock stubble on his chin, tie untied, suit rumpled. “I just… I needed to talk to someone…”
Her jaw drops, because while in the four months since he came back into her life they’ve been rebuilding their friendship, they’re not yet at the point where either one feels comfortable with dropping by unannounced. It’s a far cry from the days when they lived in each other’s pockets, but considering how things ended between them, maybe the change isn’t altogether bad.
She pulls herself together quickly, tries to smile. “Come inside,” she says, moving first, relieved when he follows her. “You want some tea… coffee?” she calls over her shoulder, heading for the kitchen, stopping when he speaks.
“I’m good.” He walks past her, into the living room, drops down onto the couch and rests his head in his hands, and she can’t remember a time when she saw him look so defeated.
“You want to talk about it?” she asks gently, her palm itching with the urge to reach out to him, and when she sits, she is careful to leave a large swath of space between them.
He looks up at her, eyes huge and dark, puppy dog eyes she always used to tease him, and the words spill out; the tale of a missing soldier, a trip to Iraq, a cheating fiancée, lack of money, a hostage situation, suicide by cop. She listens without interrupting, just lets him get it out of his system, even if the story makes her feel faint, makes her stomach churn. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he tells her, and she looks down then, because they’ve only exchanged cell phone numbers, and he’s never been to this apartment before. They’ve been meeting in public places, with plenty of people around them, and their conversations have rarely delved beyond the superficial. She doesn’t know why he’s here, but in the old days, she knows where he would have been.
“So you came here.”
The words aren’t a question, and he blinks. “Yes.” Then his eyes narrow, and she knows that he’s realised what she’s thinking. “Go ahead,” he says, his lips a thin line, eyes flashing. “Ask me.”
She doesn’t want to, but the words fall out anyway. “Have you been drinking?”
She knows it was the wrong thing to say when he stands up, begins pacing. “You think that… because I had a bad day… because of what happened…” He stops, wheels around to face her, eyes burning into hers. “I haven’t had a drink in seven years, four months and two days. I haven’t had a drink since the day you left me… and right now, there’s only one thing I’d like more.”
She swallows hard, stands on shaking legs. “Danny…”
“I miss you,” he says, and she closes her eyes, because it took her too damn long to get over him. Then she feels his hands on her shoulders, his breath moving her hair. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
It’s hard to open her eyes, harder still not to lean into his embrace, but she stands firm. “We can’t do this Danny,” she whispers, a marked lack of conviction in her voice. “I can’t be your drunken stumble…”
Immediately, she regrets her choice of words, but Danny just smiles, lifts a hand to her cheek. “You could never be that,” he tells her quietly. “Even sober… you’d never be that.”
His arms slide around her waist, pull her towards him, and she couldn’t resist if she tried. Her head still fits perfectly into the exact place on his shoulder that it always did; she can feel his chin resting on top of her head, so familiar it hurts. His hands trace up and down her back, and she’s suddenly very aware of how close they are, her skin hypersensitive suddenly under her cotton nightdress and thin dressing gown. She attempts to move away, put some distance between them, but he’s holding on tightly, loath to let her go, and she only succeeds in putting her lips within touching distance of his.
His kiss is desperate, frantic, and even though she knows they shouldn’t, indeed perhaps because of it, she kisses him back in exactly the same way. It’s a kiss that manages to be familiar and strange all at the same time, because he’s not the same man he was way back when, and she’s damn sure not the same woman. They’ve both changed, but when he lowers her to the ground, she’s not so sure she cares about whether this is right or wrong.
She just doesn’t want to stop.
It might be hours, or even days later that they come back to themselves, when she raises a shaking hand to his cheek, finds it wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, laying his hand on her cheek, and that’s when she realises that she’s been crying too.
“Don’t be,” she whispers, meaning every word as she sits up, taking his hand and helping him to stand. “Come to bed.”
He frowns. “We should-”
She shakes her head. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Against all odds, a real live Danny Taylor smile, the kind that’s haunted her dreams for seven years, four months and two days crosses his face. “I like the sound of that,” he says.
She smiles, because so does she.
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