Spoilers: Through 4x13, "All in the Family".
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the CSI franchise, I'm just taking the boys out for a spin.
Notes: Written for prompt #15 (lie) on my csi prompt table.
Summary: Flacks laughs a little at his naivete.
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They sit in the silent dark of Danny's apartment, pressed together on the sticky leather couch, and Flack's trying to sync his breathing with Danny's because it makes sleeping all the more restful.
It's an uncharacteristically sunny day in May when they work a triple homicide: three seven-year-old girls in starched dresses shot by a raving drunk. One on the slide, one on the swings, one at the edge of the playground where the woodchips ended and she had fallen running.
Two blocks down, they catch him and he's roaring sluggishly at Danny in Italian. Danny, who he recognises from a lifetime ago, when all he knew were sandboxes and turf wars fought by gangs. Danny, whose hands shake the entire ride home.
Sometimes Flack thinks that if he wasn't from New York he would hate this city -- and even then.
Danny was tired of history; of an identity handed down to him by his father, by Louie, by the neighborhood he grew up in; by the way he stretches his vowels and sharpens his consonants when angry.
"Don't you fuckin' understand, Flack?" Danny practically growls. "The bastard knew me, he knew me back before--before this, and don't tell me you weren't judging me for it. Fuck -- ever since Louie -- and all the subsequent shit that happened, it's like everything's been gnawing away at me and I can't do anythin' to stop it."
The only time Flack is romantic, is during one Christmas when he pays the carriage driver an extra twenty for working late, for the handful of oats and making the horse stamp in the snow-lined streets while he waited for Danny.
Snow days are magical, Flack thinks, and laughs a little at his naivete.
The carriage driver sets off at a brisk tort and turns to glare reproachfully at Flack as he passes. It's late on Christmas Eve, and Flack raises his hand in silent apology. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black trench and walks home alone, because Danny never showed up.
He realises there's a new voicemail on his cellphone as he pulls it out from his snow-sodden pocket. He has a slight feeling of trepidation, but he's not a cop for nothing and resolutely hits a button. Danny's easy voice floods the speaker.
"Hey Flack, I'm at Lindsay's for dinner. Sorry I didn't call ya earlier, and why the hell did ya want ta go ta Central Park anyhow? At night? Dude, all those cases gettin' to your head? Listen man--" there was a muffled laugh and the sound of a shirt rustling, "--I'll, ah, call ya--or--Jesus, Linds!--something, yeah? Merry Chri--"
Flack snaps the phone shut.
Flack pours half the bottle of Jack into the container of eggnog and stands barefoot in the cold kitchen, letting allspice and whiskey settle on his tongue. The eggnog was his half-hearted attempt at Christmas cheer; that and the plastic sprig of mistletoe he had intended to give Danny as a joke last week. The only light comes from the half-closed refrigerator and he slides down to the cold floor and tucks his knees to his chest. He's not quite sure if it was a joke or not. He stays in the kitchen all night.
Flack doesn't believe in destiny.
"I slept with Rikki," Danny says quietly, solemnly, as they drive back to the lab. He looks straight ahead at the road and clenches the material of his pants in his fist.
"Jesus Christ," Flack says vehemently and drives a little faster.
You could call it comfort sex, sure, if you were a girl. He knows -- and Flack knows -- they're just best friends in this bitch of a city.
"This makes no sense," Danny declared. He sat on a stool in Flack's kitchen in a pair of Flack's worn, blue NYPD sweatpants. There are hand-shaped bruises on his hips from last night, and the night before that.
"Mmm," Flack replies easily, and pours himself another cup of coffee.
The way Lindsay looks at him scares Danny sometimes. It's a serious, contemplative look -- the kind that could break the fragile stability of things. It means white picket fences, good school districts, finding Sky Blue crayons in his pockets, and New Jersey. It means moving away from everything he's ever known, and damn if Danny's isn't a coward now.
Lindsay grabs Flack forcefully by the arm and demands to know how long he's been in love with Danny. Flack puts his head in his hands and laughs. Laughs at her fury, her indignation, her naivity, her helplessness. He laughs until his ribs are crushing his chest and each forced gasp pushes his heart somewhere in the region of his navel.
Danny knows destiny is just history we don't yet understand. He knows there's always been too much history, all of it inescapable. His phone vibrates in his pocket (Flack again, for the third time today), and he lets it go to voicemail.