You know when you work on something and it's going fine, and then suddenly you hate it and just want to print it out so you can burn it? Yeah, feeling that way.

Without a Trace: Hold Your Breath a Little Longer.
Danny/Martin



People go missing all the time, and it's a sad realisation that only a few of those are ever noticed, ever end up as a photograph on a whiteboard with their own little timeline and brown folder. Drifting and spinning away in the current of the big cities, fewer phone calls and even less words until the person is no longer there, and no one can quite remember the last time they were something more solid than a memory. The city sometimes surges, pushes against a body until they snap and are devoured whole; an argument, debts, skipped medication, then a flash and a breaking of glass and a new brown folder gathering dust on a shelf. It's expected almost, familiar, and no one expects to see a person go missing in front of them. They don't notice the way a person hollows out from the inside, eyes growing dead and dull, skin stretching and brittle like it's trying to hold in a vacuum, trying to keep a person visible and it can't take the strain. Body vibrating, holding out, wanting to collapse in on itself, and it looks like the dark coffee twitches of a worker with too little time to sleep, to breathe, to swim against the tide of the city. Soft resignation, a quiet letting go, and no one realises until the empty desk isn't filled, and someone is left standing beside it, two cups of coffee in their hands and a frown on their face.

Danny places the second cup of coffee on Martin's desk, and wonders when the office began to feel so empty.

~~

The coffee is cold by the time Danny is allowed to leave the office, paper slip with Martin's address scribbled across it clutched in his hand. Martin's cell phone keeps ringing out, ignored and unanswered each time Danny calls, and the message service has kicked in so many times now he can remember it exactly, remember Martin's hesitant voice, sounding a little foolish,

(I'm not here…)

a cough, embarrassed, and everything sounds echoing and empty from the cell speaker.

(You know what to do…)

There's no spare key on top of the door frame to Martin's apartment, surprising Danny who expected there to be an easy, obvious way in. Knocks loudly at the door for a few minutes until a neighbour from down the hall directs him to the building supervisor, sitting out front on the sidewalk chatting to a newspaper vendor. Both men clutch Styrofoam cups of coffee to keep out the chill of the snow, and the bitter smell reminds Danny of the cold cup back in the office. He feels a knot tighten just that little bit more in his chest, and he feels suddenly like he might drown, like he might get pulled away into that secret world where missing people go. He forces himself to look into the supervisor's eyes, to ground himself in a stranger, and the city growls outside his body and can't get in.

The air in Martin's apartment feels dead, tomb-still, and Danny draws his gun, expecting blood and flesh and shattered glass. Doesn't expect the neatness, the empty rooms and quiet order. He doesn't expect to see Martin's overcoat hanging on a peg in the hallway until he turns around and notices it, pressed against the wall, Martin's shoulder holster hanging next to it. The gun is unloaded and Danny eventually finds the bullets locked away in a kitchen drawer underneath a scrapbook filled with newspaper cuttings. Thick black headlines and pixellated faces screwed up in joy and agony and fear, missing and found and dead. When Danny spots Martin's wallet and identification card on the counter he starts to understand, and the blank spots in the apartment suddenly become clear. Tilting books on a shelf where a paperback has been removed; empty photo frames hung back on the wall; fruit bowl empty and washed and placed back in the centre of the coffee table. Potplants freshly drenched and sitting in neat little saucers of water. He hears the city howling outside the window; realises it got hungry and came in through the cracks.

(I'm not here…)

~~

The picture of Martin on the whiteboard is pale and blurred, a blowup of his office identification photo, and Danny hates it. Hates the way the white background leeches the colour out of Martin's skin, turning him grey and draining the life out of the sharp blue eyes. Making him look like a corpse already, and Danny isn't ready to deal with that image yet. Everyone is quiet around him, reading through files and old cases, and running through the names in Martin's address book. Old friends and girlfriends and boys who are neither and something more; calls across different states, and Danny didn't expect there to be so many of them. Victor Fitzgerald arrives in the office early in the afternoon, barely controlled rage and fear directed at anyone but himself, and he demands checks into his own background. Turns the investigation into places it doesn't need to go, but there is no ransom call, and Danny could have told him that kidnappers don't empty photo frames and trash cans on their way out. Keeps silent instead and leafs through Martin's bank accounts, laughing quietly as he wonders how a man who spends his days wearing suits, could spend three hundred dollars in a single trip to Gap. Doesn't find anything out of the ordinary until the last page, the final cash withdrawal, and he sits up sharply. Two thousand dollars from three separate machines, and Danny is automatically on the phone to the banks, calling for security videos, pacing restlessly through the office until a courier arrives with the tapes. Picks up the cold coffee still sitting on Martin's desk, but it makes the area look even emptier, deserted, and he places the cup back again, twists the chair just slightly, and Martin's only stepped out of the room for a moment. Just out of sight, and it hurts a little less that way, makes Danny's breathing a little easier and he isn't drowning quite so deeply.

The tapes arrive within an hour and Danny barely pauses to thank the courier before almost running to the video room. Plays the tapes through quickly, screen distorted as he forwards through to the times of the withdrawals from Martin's account. Doesn't know what he hopes to find, to see, but the silent images of Martin calmly collecting his money shatters him slightly, leaves him breathless at the realisation that there is no crouching monster, no gun at Martin's side, and that this is real, is dangerous. Tracking the missing means they know the mistakes, the ways and places to get caught, and the places where the shadows are darkest to hide in. Danny feels like he's been punched when the final tape rolls and Martin looks up at the camera, raising his hand slightly and giving a sad, resigned smile. Mouths something and turns away, out of sight, and Vivian's voice from behind him is loud and startling over the compressed silence in Danny's head.

"What did he say?"

Danny's mouth is dry and he has to cough, swallow to get some moisture to talk, to make a sound of living, and he's frightened, suddenly, of fading away. Rewinds the tape and watches again, rewinds, pauses, and holds Martin there, trapped on the tape; wants to go out to the bank, to find Martin paused and held there, waiting patiently out of the shadows with a sheepish smile on his face and a bundle of useless dollars in his hand.

"Danny?"

"He said," and Danny feels like he's choking on the words, like giving them sound will make them real and sharp and almost too painful to speak. "He said, 'don't look for me.'"

~~

Vivian pulls down Martin's photo that evening, replacing it with a large reprint of a shot from someone's birthday a few weeks ago. A bar downtown, smoke-hazed and bulb-bright inbetween, and Martin leaning against a table scratched and scarred from cigarettes and keys and fingernails. Arms crossed over his chest, amused smile on his face, looking down at Danny on a barstool next to him. Silent intensity on the face of his image, but Danny can't remember what he was saying. Knows it wasn't important enough, clear enough, to keep out the hungry city for more than a few hours, safety spun in words and smoke, and then a stumbling out into the cold night air, sharp and shocking and stealing the air from their lungs. A shy goodnight, fingers lingering a little too long against a wrist, and they disappear back into shadows again, swallowed and caught and spun away in the undertow of the night. Drowning on land, and they won't both make it out alive.

~~

Danny keeps the key to Martin's apartment, hooks it on the chain next to his own and lets them nestle there, bronze and silver shards smooth-sharp each time he sticks his hand in his pocket. Packs the potplants into the back of his car and takes them home, waters them and pokes them and tries to keep them alive even though he's never owned a plant in his life, never wanted one, but the green bursts live despite the concrete and the smoke and the grey. Danny holds the leaves in his hands, breathes in the wet smell of the dirt, feels the blind life against his skin. Keeps it safe and undevoured, and its all he can do.

The dreams start soon after, nights filled with vague images of surging, faceless crowds, of teeth biting in the dark, and he wakes each time to find the air sucked out of his bedroom, has to run to the window and throw it open to chase the oxygen. Grinds his fingers into the thick snow on the window ledge, grounds himself in sharp-cold pain, and tells the city he won't be tricked like this. Won't let it in, let it creep under his skin, and he remembers the final flashes of his dreams. A familiar figure in the crowd and there are people between them, keeping them apart. Danny reaches out, tries to make a sound, but the silence drowns his voice and the sun grows brighter, blots out the shadows of the missing and blinds him for a moment. When he can see again, Danny is alone, and the crowd and the figure are gone.

When he goes back to bed, Danny shuts the window firmly behind him, and pushes the locks into place.

~~

Martin's photograph is taken down one morning, his timeline wiped and replaced with the smiling image of a young girl who never made it home from school. Another face in the crowd, and Danny feels Martin slip even further away, can't help but wonder if he was ever really there. The coffee cup is gone from the desk, the chair pushed out of the way, and it's no longer waiting to be filled. Jack hands Danny Martin's file, asks him quietly, gently, to put it in the archives. Danny protests, angry, because they're not finished yet, Martin isn't home, and he isn't ready to give up yet. Isn't ready to stop looking, and Jack's voice is harsh when he snaps out,

"He doesn't want you to find him, Danny!"

There's disappointment in Jack's eyes, something like regret, and he holds out his hand to take the file back. Danny holds it tight and turns away, and he places it in his desk instead. It lies under the scrapbook he took from Martin's apartment and he flicks through them sometimes, feeling like he's missed something, and the answer will be there under the next piece of paper, or maybe the next. He pastes an article about Martin at the back, one that talks about the bright young agent and concerned father and glittering careers before and to come. Doesn't mention long nights and take out food and people who miss him. The printed photograph is unsmiling, and Danny has to concentrate to remember how Martin's eyes crinkle when he laughs.

The idea comes to him late one night when he's turning through the scrapbook, fingers passing over the familiar typeset of the Times crinkled slightly with paste, and he knows Martin is a creature of habit. He begins hunting around the office, looking for a copy of the paper and taking it back to his desk when he finds one shoved under a pile of papers in Vivian's file rack. He leafs through it, hands trembling slightly, and when he turns to the Personals section the recklessness - desperation? - of the idea makes him laugh. Looks out the window to the dark night pressing against the glass, resolutely turns his back to it, feeling the harsh pressure and the hungry gaze and he reaches for the phone before the glass can shatter. The number at the top of the page leads him to an automated voice, and Danny stares at the paper in front of him, contemplating the sections and placing the advert in a rush of words before he can think about it properly. Two days later it's in the paper, there in solid black and white, and Danny spends the day hoping no one around him sees it.

(You're Wanted.

Still looking for you. Danny.)

It becomes a ritual, ringing the always-empty voice box once a week before placing the next advert. Always the same bright, bold title, the sentiment changing each time. Hopeful at first, sometimes worried, sometimes angry.

I hope you're safe. I hope you're happy.

Call me. Email. Messenger pigeon, even.

Where are you?

I'm slowly killing your plants.

Danny ignores the absurdity of it, ignores the feel of the last threads of Martin slipping away from him. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, that he's tossing dead letters into the void, but he can't stop, won't stop, because this is all he can do now. Feels he should have done more, been more, and he hates himself a little for saving strangers. Meaningless motions and words, and he isn't expecting the message when he calls one week, isn't expecting the harsh in-drawn breath and silence and the click of the receiver. Places the next advert almost hesitantly, careful and aware suddenly that it might be less than a ritual, but the words seem limp and lifeless when he sees them in print.

Was that you? Are you okay?

There is no phone message that week, and Danny swallows his disappointment and places the next personal. Looks for it two days later and his breath catches in his throat when he sees, nestled between the usual calls for gym buddies and opera groups, what he's been waiting for all these empty weeks. Feels everything grow quiet and still around him and all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

(Secret Agent Man.

Well, I'm not selling shoes.)

Presses his hand against his mouth to trap the laughter that threatens to break out, reads the message over and over, afraid that if he looks away, the ink will bleed back into the paper and it won't be there anymore. He memorises the voice box number but doesn't call, afraid to force, to break the fragile thread he's suddenly been given. Cuts out the message from the paper and slips it into his wallet where it feels like the first loop in a piece of armour.

~~

The paper messages go back and forth for a few weeks, tentative and inane and never quite answered but it's a start and that's all Danny ever wanted.

Are you getting enough burritos?

I watched the sun come up this morning.

Your team sucked last night.

My plants better be alive.

Jack's hair is truly terrifying. It's possibly planning an escape.

Danny notices Vivian chuckling and glancing over at him as she reads through the paper that day, but she does nothing more than flash him a bright, soft smile, and brings him coffee and a Danish later in the morning. He feels like the pieces of paper in his wallet are an invisible force, pressing back the world from his skin and leaving him light and loose. He can walk through the city without feeling like he's being watched, being hunted, and when he arrives home that night to the sound of his phone ringing, he can answer it without his voice feeling like sharp shards in his throat.

"Taylor."

The breathing on the other end is soft, the intake of breath nervous, then, "Danny?"

Danny stills, his fingers tightening on the phone, the refrigerator door he's just opened standing still and forgotten. "No," he breathes slowly and leans against the counter behind him. "Elizabeth."

Soft laughter in his ear. "You're such a jerk."

There are things Danny has wanted to say for weeks, for nearly months now he realised, but the words have suddenly gone and he's left with this wild pounding in his throat and insects crawling in his belly. "I didn't kill your plants," is all he can blurt out, and he winces.

"That's good to know," Martin's voice is nervous but warm, and Danny's missed it, missed it's sharp, drawling edge and wry humour. There's silence then, weighty and hesitant and Danny doesn't want to break it while it holds them together. Wants to hear more than silence though, and the words are out before he can stop them.

"Why did you-" Bites his lip, hears glass breaking in the distance and growling at the windows. Cuts Martin off before the not-answer is there. "Don't answer that. I just…" Rubs his hands over tired eyes and takes a deep breath. "We made a good team."

"I know." A pause. Confession. "I miss you."

"Are you happy?"

A question he should have held back, shouldn't have asked, and Danny thinks that's it then, that the next thing he hears will be a snapped thread and a dialtone, and the voice in his ear is unexpected.

"I think so. Yes."

"What, are you missing something from your little island paradise you ran off to?" He can't keep the bitter tone out of his voice, and he hates it.

"Well, I don't have you here."

Feels himself still, paused, and if he didn't know what he was doing all these weeks of wondering and rituals, he knows now.

"I could change that for you."

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Mischievous, knows it's the middle of the week, knows Jack won't be happy at Danny just taking off, and fuck Jack for giving up.

Danny smiles, lets go the breath he didn't realise he was holding in. "Nothing that can't wait."

"Do you want to go to the beach?"

He looks out the window at the falling darkness and twisting snow, and thinks nothing has ever sounded more perfect.

~~

The directions are written neatly on a piece of paper folded in his pocket. Danny didn't want to take any chances on a wrong direction and made Martin spell out each road, each train stop, running through them three times until Martin laughed and told him to just keep his cell phone switched on in case he got lost. They made late breakfast arrangements and Danny takes the trains out to Long Island, switching up and down the lines until he gets to Montauk. He pulls the paper out, following the instructions through the town and out to a boardwalk running across the top of the beach. The sand is covered in thick, powdery snow, churning ice where it meets the waves. He's ten minutes early, and Danny leans against the railings and stares out at the surf rolling back and forth, trying not to look around him every few seconds. The air is still, frozen, making it almost difficult to breath; but the town seems peaceful, far away from the noise and the hunger of the city, and Danny wonders if Martin has been hiding so close all this time.

There's a warm body beside him, hovering near his side, and Danny fixes his eyes on the surf.

"Hey." Danny can hear the nervousness in Martin's voice, the slight crack and shape of the word as it leaves his lips.

"You know," Danny squints out at the beach, against the sudden flurry of sand and snow that the wind pushes at them. "It's really fucking freezing here." Huff of laughter beside him, and Danny is turning to look at him, smiling warmly. "You couldn't have headed for Hawaii?"

"Different newspapers there," and Martin looks changed. Loose and relaxed, and the stubble on his face isn't because he's been up thirty-six hours straight. Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a thick overcoat, woollen beanie jammed down over his ears, and Danny has to laugh. "What?"

"You look different. You look happy."

Martin leans against the railings next to him, pressed close, and Danny can feel the heat from his body, feel it curling and mixing with his own, and it doesn't hurt quite so much to breathe any more.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For fucking up," Martin is shaking slightly, and it's not just the cold. "For leaving like that. I just… I couldn't do that anymore, you know?"

And Danny does know, has felt it itching at the back of his neck for weeks now, and he weighs his words carefully, because for this to be the last time he sees Martin would be even more painful than if he just never found him. "I wish you'd talked to someone. Talked to me. But I don't blame you for leaving. Not if that's what you needed."

There's silence then, breaking waves, but it isn't glass and when Martin speaks next, his voice is soft.

"I was heading home that night, and I was on the subway. No one was looking at each other, everyone was afraid to make eye contact and I thought… I knew if someone just faded away right there, no one would notice. No one would give a damn. The city could swallow someone up, swallow us all up, and it wouldn't make a difference. And everything around me seemed so loud and so hungry, and I ran, and I'm sorry." Takes a deep breath, and Danny can hear the echoes of howling under it.

"It made a difference to me."

Martin looks at him, sharp and tentative, and Danny shifts slightly, leans over and gently grasps Martin's wrist. Holds it there, feels the pulse and the life moving under his fingers, surging like the waves and the city, and it's all there under Martin's skin. Hungry and alive and solid, and Danny lifts Martin's hand to his lips, gently places a kiss against his palm, and lays the first piece of a new set of armour.

Danny takes Martin back to the city that evening. Secret and tentative, and they lie awake in Danny's bed and watch the snow drift down past the window. Danny wraps his arms around Martin, holds him close, and the city stays outside and can't get in.


ETA: Icon graphic by carolinecrane. It's so pretty, and goes so well with the story.