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Underline
by Nicola
Rating: R
Spoilers: #1.05, 'Suspect'
Warnings: The themes of 'Suspect' are carried through into this fic.
They drive back to the city from the caves. Jack's hands don't shake if he grips the wheel hard enough. Martin hadn't been able to form a credible reason for refusing the ride, and his silence continues to permeate the car's interior.
Jack keeps glancing at Martin — quick cuts away from the road. Sometimes he meets the other man's gaze; other times he lingers too long on his profile.
It is easier to take the time to gauge Martin's reaction than examine his own state of mind too closely. His first impression is of a wary puppy dog who has seen his master's wrath directed elsewhere and fears it will soon be turned upon him. He is uncomfortable, but has been drilled well enough to try and hide it behind bravado and blankness. (He has not yet learned that it is impossible to hide.) He is pushing past tiredness into extreme wakefulness and his eyes jump with a little too much mania. The confusion in his frown is waning; hardening into uneasy disapproval.
Martin's perfect features accomplish all that his FBI training has not, sliding any further emotions behind the bland mask of his pretty-boy looks. The final thing Jack can sense, though, is fear. Martin is scared of him. Not the jocular intimidation of their usual working relationship, but something more visceral and less easy to explain away.
Every time Jack looks away, he eases his foot onto the brake and promises himself he will not look again.
Jack misses the right turning deliberately, and heads into the heart of downtown Manhattan. He waits with a perverse sense of exhilaration for Martin to notice. Quick cuts, and Jack sees the muscle jump in his jaw; his fingers tighten on the dashboard; his eyes flickering too quickly about him. They hit solid traffic and slow to a crawl. The streets outside are reduced to a neon blur by the rain-fogged windows.
Jack watches the way that Martin balks as he accelerates suddenly. He barely registers the road as he manoeuvres recklessly to the side of the road and parks illegally. He throws open the car door to the persisting screams of a dozen car horns.
"Jack, what are you doing?" Martin tumbles onto the sidewalk after him, fear catalysing with surprise that seems to shoot across his face in spasms. (It's only the headlights.)
"Tell me what you're thinking," is all that Jack can murmur. "No, show me. Don't just silently . . . judge me. You have no . . . you have no right. No idea."
"Jack. Get back in the car," Martins says with greater control. Everything on his face is fading into tiredness, and with sudden foresight, Jack can see how it should play out: the complicated mix of emotions, too messy to assimilate, will instead simply fade. Sleep and cold showers and Martin will be able to look at him normally again.
They've all become so good at forgetting.
"Show me!" Jack explodes suddenly. He lurches backwards on the sidewalk, against the steady stream of pedestrians. He is lost for a moment behind a man with purple hair and a woman with a baby stroller. And then: "He me. Come on. Hit me." He's screaming now, and no-one cares. Men in suits and teenage girls alike weave around him heedlessly.
Jack's lips form further words, but his shouts are drowned out by the momentary riot of a siren. His head rolls, and when he disappears into an alley a few feet away, Martin can't not follow him.
"Hit me. Punch me in the face. Go on, take a swing," Jack is still insisting, although his screams have worn down into an urgent hiss by now.
"What is wrong with you?" Martin's question receives a throaty laugh of contempt from Jack, so he quickly rephrases: "Why do you want me to fight you?"
"Because I make you sick. Because when I got under his skin, I got under yours too. That filth, you feel it prickling away inside of you when you look at me.
"So I want you to take your best shot."
Martin is momentarily confused as he feels Jack's hand reach for his. The callous palms of Jack's large hands close around his knuckles before he realises that his hand has been clenched into a fist. Jack's fingers do not move away immediately, and Martin realises faintly that they are standing too close together.
"I'm not going to hit you," he says weakly. "You were doing your job . . ."
"No. I always go too far. Isn't that the general consensus? Above and . . . beyond."
"There's no such thing as too far for us. You did what you had to do. To get the boy -- the kid back."
"Not a kid . . ." Jack murmurs, and turns away. "Where's the line . . . I don't think I know anymore. I knew what he was thinking. I could taste it, on the tip of my tongue; feel it at the ends of my fingertips . . ."
Martin's fingers are still curled in a fist; still burning lightly from Jack's touch.
"It's not the same. You're not him, Jack . . . and I'm not . . ."
"Not a boy? Of course you're a boy! You can hide it behind all the worldly bravado, but you're still a fucking--"
The punch takes them both by surprise. Martin is not a fighter, but his swing is fast and reckless enough to spin against Jack's jaw and send him staggering away.
Surprise widens Martin's eyes and his fist unclenches automatically. Floundering, he stutters, "I— I'm sorry—"
Before he can continue, Jack slams him hard against the brick wall of the alley. "Don't. Apologise." Jack's voice is a mere sensation, rough and sore against the back of Martin's throat.
They are lost in shadow, away from the main road that still screams and illuminates. The stream of pedestrians continues steps away, but they are unnoticed, invisible. The shadows of Jack's face loom nearer, their smoky shades of grey pushing everything else to the periphery of Martin's consciousness. Jack's first kiss is more of a bite, and Martin tastes blood: the unexpected warmth of a swollen lip against his tongue. It's not his blood, but he feels as if it were.
Martin can barely register more before Jack's mouth is gone, replaced with a fist in his face. New pain spits along the tendons of his jaw, and when Jack kisses him again, it is both their blood. Their metallic tastes mingling, kicked by adrenaline, and soured by the linger of vomit.
Jack's knee pushes between Martin's legs as he slams him against the wall again. Jack takes no pleasure or vindication from the realization that Martin is already hard as he begins to rub against him. He is hissing straight in the other man's mouth now: "Tell me to stop," he commands, feeling the weight of begging in his throat.
Martin's vocabulary has shrunk incredibly, so that he can only gasp the two words that remain: "Don't stop."
His hands claw uselessly at Jack, fingers trying to find openings in the standard issue suit. Part of him feels he could crawl out of his own skin -- but he can find no place else to go. He comes with a groan that Jack tries not to hear.
It has started to rain again. It slides around them, soft and wet, obliterating their tableau. Jack can't taste blood anymore, and Martin's warm skin is cooling. He is already beginning to fade, dissolving from Jack's vision. Time has begun to unravel in his mind — because fifteen minutes is never really fifteen minutes: it's tomorrow as Martin stares with ill-disguised hurt and belligerence; it's the day after that as he tries to stand up to him and falls down again.
On the street, which has reappeared explicably, Martin kisses him, gently and with a slight tremble that makes Jack's hands begin to shake all over again.
"Forget it," he whispers.
January 2004
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