Spoilers: Minor spoilers through the end of season 3.
Prompt: Written for prompt #10, colorless, from the csi50 prompt table.
Summary: The first proper day off Danny Messer's had in weeks and it rains. And he contemplates.
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The first proper day off Danny Messer's had in weeks and it rains. The sudden, New York kind of rain that floods the streets and drowns out the sun so that when he groggily peers out of his window in the morning, he an't see anything past the gray building next door. Fuckin' perfect, he thinks, and contemplates the empty coffee pot in his closet-sized kitchen.
He stands at the rain-streaked window, deliberating for five minutes before turning bacck to bed, pulling the worn, white covers over his body. He dreams of empty Cracker Jack boxes that litter baseball stadiums, snow days that blanket the city, and the residual smell of medical gauze.
He sleep fitfully for hours.
It's midafternoon when the doorbell rings, and Danny lies in bed, the white sheets tangled around his legs and he considers not answering. He turns his head slightly to the right, and even without his glasses, he knows it's still raining. It hisses down the window pane and drowns out any other noise, enveloping him in a pleasant, numbing cocoon of white noise and Danny briefly thinks that this must be what it's like to live in a radio. (And he rolls his eyes and blames the lack of caffeine and burros back under the covers).
When the doorbell rings for the second, third, fourth time, he stumbles out of bed. The constant ringing stops and Danny looks through the peekhole to a brown paper bag with grease stains lining the bottom. Sharif packed the falafel to go, Don explains, stepping into Danny's apartment without an invitation (though by now the unspoken question is understood, so Danny steps aside to let Don in).
It's fuckin' raining, Don, Danny says dryly, crossing his arms and nodding towards the living room window. It's not really an answer, but Don smiles and walks into the kitchen to make coffee.
The tile behiind Danny's head has chipped, leaving a gaping hole in the scrolling blue and white images of a French countryside where the requisite bunch of flowers shold be. Don makes a snarky comment about domesticity and toile being the preferred wall covering of little ol' ladies, and Danny throws a piece of falafel at him. (Perfect curveball, he thinks, and struggles with his pokerface).
It leaves a visible grease stain on Don's pink pinstripe tie. When he looks down with horror, Danny smiles sweetly and responds, Remember to use color-safe bleach, Flack.
Don gives him the finger, and is silent for the rest of the meal.
By late afternoon the rain has stopped. Danny thinks about how rain is supposed to make everything clean again, but all it's done so far is wash away the city's color and fill his apartment with a staid silence that stretches and curls in the apartment.
Danny is sprawled ungracefully across his couch, legs and arms thrown out to the side, and Don has collapsed in the armchair opposite the couch. The dim sunlight slants in languidly through the window and Don slowly looks up with his open, brilliant eyes and says, Wanna get outta here?
And Danny looks at him and nods and moves to grab his coat.
They spend the rest of the late afternoon down on the boardwalk at Coney Island, while Danny pries cotton candy off of his fingers. Later Danny ambles down to the beach, still licking at the sticky remains of cotton candy in the crevices between his knuckles (and Don falters for a momtent, but follows him anyways).
Danny shrugs off his coat, laying it on the sand and folds his legs under him. And Don takes off his coat and does the same, so that both of them are sitting side by side, knees and elbows pressing lightly, as they watch the sun. If Don was a more eloquent man, he might have remarked about how the hazy sky dipped into the grey water, or the way that the dropping sun reflected off of Danny's glasses. But he isn't, so he squints into the sunset and tries not to stare at the fleck of cotton candy at the corner of Danny's upper lip.
Though you had a hot date tonight Messer, Don asks quietly. He absently plays with the cold sand and studiously watches the water lap gently against the beach.
Danny doesn't answer at first, but draws up his knees and rests his cheek on them. A pause, then, Lindsay's pissed at me. He scratched his chin and twisted his lips ruefully. Don could have said that it was a smile, but the sun's bright in his eyes, and he knows better than to wish for something that's never going to happen.
Oh, Don responds, and flushes at the idiocy of his answer.
Danny turns his face away from the darkening sky and smirks at him, all shuttered blue eyes and prominent cheekbones that are only accentuated by the fading sunlight that plays off of the water's surface. Yeah, he says slowly and nods. Yeah.
He languidly traces his name (the large D, the small and spiky A, N, N, Y in cramped sucession) into the damp sand with one finger, deeper and deeper and deeper so, that the coarse sand scrapes under his fingernails and the water seeps into the indentations. (And Don has a silly, fleeting urge to to carve his own name next to Danny's -- the large D, the long and sloping O and N -- but these are his good dress pants, and anyways, the lulling tide and the footprints of millions of other people will wash everything away -- )
Danny rocks back onto his heels. He thinks about how the cotton candy that was stuck to his fingers has been transferred to the sand; and from there to the horizon, and beyond that to where the sky drowned in the sea.
- fin -