(no subject)

[helsinkibaby]

Yeah. I know I said I'd probably still look at season three, but honestly? I just sat through Bait and by the end of it, I was literally grinding my teeth going "15 eps to go, 15 eps to go"... and wailing "Speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!" whenever Rory was on the screen... yeah, I really really really don't think I can do it. lasairfhiona, if it's still ok with you, I'll get the first tape of eps, but I honestly don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to watch it... but Jesus God in Heaven above (and no Horatio, I'm not talking about you) it's going to be hard.
Speed!!!


And now, for maggis who needs sheer mind-numbing fluffery, we have the fluffiest of fluff fic... it's Without a Trace Danny/Natalie (my OFC, so medie you should like this too) -- future fic, inspired by Mags at something like two in the morning during the summer... we're dangerous watching this show in the same room you know! Long awaited by maggis so I hope you like it!


It never fails to amaze Natalie how quickly something can become habit, how quickly your life can change irretrievably, so that it's impossible to remember what went before.

If loving Danny Taylor has taught her one thing, it's taught her that, several times.

The first time she learned that lesson was during her freshman year of college. Sitting on a bench, trying to enjoy the good weather while reading Ulysses - though she quickly realised that trying to enjoy anything while reading Ulysses was impossible - she'd heard a male voice uttering the corniest line imaginable, had looked up into those dark eyes of his and been promptly smitten.

He'd asked her out for coffee and she'd agreed without too much persuasion, and from then on, they'd fallen rapidly into seeing one another every day. While the rest of her friends went out with different guys, Danny was it for her, and for the four years of college, she'd never looked at another guy, couldn't imagine doing it.

She couldn't imagine not having him in her life, couldn't imagine what her life would be like without him, didn't know how she got by without him. So, when they graduated and he proposed, she didn't hesitate to say yes.

Even if she knew that he was drinking too much. They could get through that, and, after all, he kept promising her that he would stop.

It was a long time before she realised that alcohol meant more to him than she did, and even then, she can't pinpoint what it was that made her leave. Nothing special about the day that she arrived home to find him passed out on the couch; it was something that happened fairly frequently. That day, she felt something break inside her, knew she couldn't do it anymore.

So she left New York and ran away to California and home, where friends and family, relieved that she'd done what they'd been telling her to do for months, protected the secret of her location, refusing to tell Danny where she was, what she was doing.

She got a job, an apartment, tried to move on with her life, even began dating, eventually. But it was a long time before she stopped comparing every man to the Danny that she'd fallen in love with, the Danny that she'd planned to spend the rest of her life with. It was even long before she felt that she was really over him, that he wasn't a factor in her life anymore. That day came when she realised that she couldn't remember the little things she loved about him, like how his hands felt against her skin, the look in his eyes when he looked at her, the tiny smile that would play about his lips when he was telling her something, anything.

When she couldn't remember those little things, it was almost a relief.

Almost.

Not too long after that, a job came up in the New York office, a promotion, and it was offered to her. Everyone told her that she would be crazy not to take it, and she knew that they were right. Just like she knew that even though it had been seven years since she'd been in New York - had never returned, not since she'd left Danny - she was strong enough to go back.

Then one day she'd found herself in a bookstore in front of a floor to ceiling shelf of Irish writers, and an all-too-familiar voice had made her jump. "Finally given up on Joyce, huh?" he'd said, and, not for the first time since she'd known him, she was completely speechless.

Just like she'd known, the second that she saw him, that she wasn't over him after all. If a few words in the bookstore hadn't proven that, then a cup of coffee, a conversation, was all it had taken to make the previous seven years disappear like mist in the morning.

She'd taken things slowly though, deliberately so, because the last thing she wanted to do was get hurt again.

That had lasted until the night that he'd shown up at her door, distraught over a case, and they'd ended up in bed. She'd woken up the next morning in his arms, turned to him and kissed him good morning, and they've scarcely spent a night apart since.

She knows she shouldn't be surprised that they fell so easily into a routine with one another; they always have, right from the first time that they met.

The last month and a half have been no different.

Nor is tonight.

When the familiar high-pitched wail disturbs their sleep, Danny, with years of FBI experience of the telephone ringing at all hours of the morning, is the quicker to react. "I'll go," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and as she fights her way through levels of sleepiness, she can just about make out the rustle of bedclothes, then the sound of clothing being pulled on. His footsteps head for the door and when he gets to the hall, he slaps on the light, half-closing the door so that she's not completely blinded when she opens her eyes, yet leaving her enough light that she won't go back to sleep again.

Rolling over onto her back, she prises open her eyes, stares at the ceiling for a long moment before taking a deep breath, manoeuvring herself out of bed, grabbing her robe and pulling it on, pulling it tightly closed. Sheer vanity, as well as long habit, has her running her hands through her hair, smoothing it down, pushing it back, even as she's following him, making her way down the hall, into the next room.

What she sees there has her catching her breath.

Danny stands at the window, his back to her, and she can see his reflection in the glass, can see the expression of combined wonder and worry on his face as he looks down at the baby he's holding against his chest. Their daughter, due for a feed, is still fussing, but not wailing, her dark eyes wide as she looks up at her father, his hand supporting her neck. He's talking to her in Spanish, his voice low and musical, and as Natalie stands and watches them from the doorway - because really, how could she be expected to disturb this sight? - he begins to sing softly, still in Spanish. She knows, because he's told her, that it's a song his mother used to sing to him as a child, adding ruefully that it's a song he barely remembers, is probably getting half of the words wrong, but she doesn't care about that. Neither does he, because Andrea always calms down when he sings to her.

Natalie shifts on her feet slightly, and the movement must catch Danny's attention in the glass, because he turns towards her, murmuring something to the baby in Spanish. She catches the word "Mama" and it makes her smile as she crosses the room to stand beside him, her left hand reaching out to cup the baby's head, the other reaching out to run over the skin of his back. The muscles ripple under her touch, and she gives him a devilish grin as her hand continues down, stopping when she reaches the waistband of his jeans, pulling at it before her fingers dip just underneath it. It's enough to have him moving away from her slightly, and she raises an eyebrow as he says to her, completely in earnest, "What have I said about not when the baby's in the room?"

"She's six weeks old," Natalie points out, more amused than annoyed. "I doubt she'll remember what her parents got up to."

It's not the first time she's pointed that out to him, and he offers his usual protest as he hands Andrea to her. "I'm not taking that risk," he says. There's a moment of silence where their eyes meet, and there's that familiar spark in them when he continues, "Now, when she's back down…"

His voice is still low, but nowhere near as tender as it was when he was speaking to the baby. Now it's rough with wanting and promise, and she feels ripples of gooseflesh erupting on her arms. "I'm going to hold you to that," she says, sitting down in the rocking chair on the other side of the window, guiding the baby to her breast, Andrea gripping onto the index finger of her free hand, holding it tightly.

Danny comes over beside her, squats down beside them, and she smiles as he balances himself by resting his right hand on the arm of the chair, his left hand moving up to touch her skin, before continuing on to play with her hair. His hand is as warm as the skin of his back, as is the gold of his wedding ring, as are his lips when he leans over, fits them against hers.

This has been their ritual for the last six weeks, and she knows what comes next. When Andrea is finished feeding, she will give her to Danny, let him sing her back to sleep, lay her in her cradle. Then they will stand beside her for a few minutes, partly to check that she's asleep, partly to check that she's breathing, partly because they just can't get enough of looking at her. Then they will return to their bedroom, where he'll make good on his promise of earlier on.

This ritual is only six weeks old, and Natalie can't remember what her life was like before Andrea, before Danny.

She can't remember, and she doesn't want to.
>*<*>*<

I'm just thinking.... I should make myself a user pic for this series...