Three weeks and his apartment no longer smells like home. Like him and comfort and all the things he's spent years taking for granted. Now it holds only hollowness, the empty scent of dust and vacant space.
It's only marginally comforting that the lingering scent of antiseptics is absent here.
Even his belongings seem somehow unfamiliar; his couch darker than he remembers it being, his table longer, the curtains flimsier.
"Sam's going to stop by later with some groceries; you don't have much in your fridge, apparently," Jack says behind him, putting down a small bag of personal belongings that Martin's had since first waking up. He still doesn't know who retrieved the items from his apartment and brought them to the hospital.
"Yeah, okay," Martin responds, voice echoing and Martin frowns, trying to recall if that's ever happened before.
"You need anything else?" Jack asks, and he's not offering.
Martin knows Jack well enough to know this is only duty, not an attempt at friendship and the thought makes Martin want to laugh hysterically.
"No, I'm good," he responds, eyes still following the line of the room, taking in pictures he doesn't remember owning and a glazed bowl on the coffee table that he swore was tucked away in one of the kitchen cabinets.
"Okay, then. You're still on leave, so I don't want you showing up in the office until you're cleared," Jack says, opening the door and Martin has enough time to nod before Jack's slipping outside, leaving Martin alone in his hollow house with its hollow sounds and its hollow scent.
Three days and aside from Sam's brief visit --to drop off groceries and ask many of the same questions that passed Jack's lips-- he's spent the time alone.
Cloistered away, the failed agent hidden from judging eyes and Martin can't remember the last time he was this bored.
Sleep takes up most of his time, exhaustion creeping up behind him when he least expects it and Martin now knows his bedroom ceiling intimately. He's even gone so far as to reread books he hasn't touched since college.
Vivian's called. From her house and Martin doesn't remember her being released. She sounded healthy, strong, but then again, she is Vivian. His mother's called, worry carefully masked by casual indifference and it's still odd to listen to her advising him to get well without hanging his head and shuffling his feet in an imitation of meekness.
His father sent an email.
Two sentences, I hope you're doing well. Listen to your mother, stark black glaring against the white of the page and Martin found it quite possibly the funniest thing he's ever read.
He doesn't know where Danny is, except that he's alive. Or so everyone's told him.
It's the extent of what his body can handle now, but his best time wasn't much better, so he knows he can't complain. Besides, it feels good to run, even if he is breaking doctor's orders. Even if pain pulses with each footfall. Even if his heart does race a little too fast to be considered safe. Even if, after, he'll be forced to walk with a cane just to remain vertical.
Still, he knows his limits. Knows them and tends to ignore them because Jack won't let him back into the office until he's proven himself.
It's raining today.
He likes it when it rains, even though the seasons are changing and the rain is chilly now, cold and damp and it always leaves him aching. Muscles and bones protesting the sudden activity after weeks of nothing. It's refreshing, though, real and he imagines the rain is the only thing keeping him from overheating.
As always, he finds himself running past the Plaza. Running circles around it, although he still doesn't know what he's hoping to find. Who he's hoping to see. He thinks, maybe, he just wants to feel connected to the only thing he's ever felt a connection to. His job is his life, as sad as it sounds, but over a month away from the office has left him aching with the sensation of uselessness. Aching with the sensation of loss.
A third lap and Martin starts back the way he came, home still an hour's run off and maybe he'll make it to four today.
Three rings and Martin hangs up before the machine can pick up. Danny's either not home, or not answering, because he never lets a call ring past two. Martin remembers commenting on it once, getting Danny's smirk and an animated rant about the annoyance of ring tones for an answer.
Vivian's taken to calling every few days. Checking in, she calls it, but Martin knows she's just worried. Or maybe she knows what it's like to be stuck outside of life for extended periods and wants to spare him the misery she herself endured in the days and weeks leading to her surgery.
Jack checks in through Vivian, or maybe Vivian just wants him to think that. Wants him to know that his coworkers actually care.
Sam's stopped by twice more, each time bringing food and frowning like she was carefully choosing her words. Martin's half afraid she wants to try her hand at reconciliation. The last thing he wants to do is hurt her. She's still a friend. A colleague and things already have the potential to be entirely too awkward.
Martin smiles and thanks her for the food, asks after Danny and sends her on her way.
She never answers.
Danny still hasn't called.
He wakes in time to watch the clock on his nightstand flicker past the hour. Three o'clock and waking in the middle of the night has become a habit. Martin knows it's just the pain, a simple thing to solve if he was willing to touch the pain killers his doctor prescribed. He's not, though, instead panting his way through the worst of it, eyes squeezed tight against the residual light in the room, breath even and forced, mind counting down from ten.
He makes it to two before the worst of the pain passes.
Falling back asleep now will only assure waking in another hour so Martin throws aside the blankets, steps out onto increasingly chilly floors and pads out of the room, down the hall and into the living room to flick on his computer.
There's another email from his father, checking in, but aside from that there's only spam, advertisements for pharmaceuticals and x-rated sites. He deletes them all before answering his father in emotionless, one word sentences. Things like fine and good and okay and no.
No response to the email he sent Danny two days ago.
His lungs aren't quite working today. A by-product of the increasing cold that leaves the air sharp and stinging. Still, he doesn't stop, forcing himself forward until he rounds the corner, the Plaza coming into view.
He's not authorized to return, yet, but he doesn't think there's any rule against stopping in. A quick visit, just to say hello and let the team see he's recuperating. A quick visit that'll maybe convince Jack he's ready to return. A quick visit because it's pretty much the only way he's going to see or speak to Danny before Jack does let him return.
He's not even sure why it's so important, except that maybe he just needs to see with his own eyes that Danny did indeed come out of the whole Adisa incident unscathed. That Danny's not secretly dead, buried six feet under and maybe no one's told him because they don't want grief or guilt interfering with his recovery.
The thought almost stops him, but he's through the doors, approaching security and he knows it's too late to turn back now. Someone's probably already called upstairs to let Jack know he's here.
Martin stumbles through the metal detectors, suddenly wishing he'd thought to bring his cane. He'd forgotten how quickly running drained him of energy. How quickly running brought forward the almost perpetual pain that Martin's certain might just last a lifetime.
Already, he doesn't like the new girl. It's not just that she's, technically, his replacement, but because he still doesn't think she was needed. They've managed just fine with four when Vivian was out, and now Vivian's back so why Jack felt the need to bring in a fifth is somewhat confusing.
Granted, Vivian's still office bound, so maybe three in the field isn't enough. The thought doesn't turn Martin's forced smile genuine.
He mutters something that sounds like nice to meet you, but he's fairly certain the words came out as more of a growl. Elena shrinks back slightly before squaring her shoulders, shaking her head and heading back to his desk to finish whatever it was she was working on.
Danny, apparently, is out on a lead, or so Vivian says. Due back at any time and Martin's torn between wanting to wait and wanting to leave before he ends up flat on his back in front of the team. Jack's already given him a lecture on running over when he could have taken a cab. Another lecture on pushing himself too hard and needing Martin in top form.
Martin doubts that. Elena seems more than competent and Jack's never patted him on the back for his theories.
He hears Sam's voice moments before Vivian's gaze wanders, past his shoulder to the door behind him and whatever Vivian was saying is lost as Martin turns, noticing the surprise in Sam's eyes before turning his attention to Danny. Danny seems frozen mid-step in the doorway, eyes locked on Martin, unnamed emotions flickering in their depths.
A few bleed through. Relief and worry and something Martin swears must be guilt before Danny's breaking eye contact, eyes locked on Martin's chest as he moves forward, steps laboured and Martin's breath catches as Danny's features smooth to stillness, a marble mask that Martin doesn't remember Danny ever wearing sliding into place.
"You're back," Danny says, gaze flickering, never lingering long on Martin's face.
"Just visiting. I'm not cleared for duty, yet," Martin responds, frowning at the relief that Danny doesn't manage to hide quick enough.
"Well, it's good to see you up and about," Danny says, twitching with the effort to remain still and a thousand questions form on Martin's tongue.
Things like, why didn't you visit me in the hospital and why didn't you call and why can't you look at me?
He doesn't voice any of them, instead nodding like it is good to be up and about and Martin tells himself he's not hurt when Danny says something about work and slides past Martin on the way to his desk.
On the first day of his fourth week home, he starts the day by throwing the glazed bowl from his coffee table against the wall.
It doesn't shatter, despite his best efforts, instead breaking into three distinct pieces that clatter to the floor with only a small dent in his wall for his trouble. Martin half wants to cry.
He finds himself laughing instead, recognizing the signs of someone going stir crazy and he considers throwing something heavier. He doesn't, instead falling onto his too dark couch and frowning past the open curtains at the sun creeping over the horizon. It's too bright by far, the sky entirely too clear, too blue and Martin misses the rain.
He's done nothing of use in the last few days. Nothing but sit around, waiting for a phone call that hasn't come, wishing for something he knows isn't likely to happen anytime soon because, best case scenario, he'll be out six weeks. An eternity as far as he's concerned.
Running lost its appeal two days ago, right after a minor spill that left him breathless and dazed, face down on pavement. He doesn't think he did much damage, but the embarrassment alone was enough to cause him to tuck away his shoes and bide his time indoors.
It's ridiculous, really, because aside from a slight limp and the occasional stomach cramp, he's healthier now than he's ever been. Even his scars are fading, red blotched skin once again turning milky white.
He's been seeing a therapist. Bureau orders, but at least she can tell Jack he's not suffering from post traumatic stress and maybe that might shave off a week or so. He's been in physiotherapy for weeks now, gaining strength by the day: by Bureau standards he's more than fit for duty.
Jack still won't budge.
Of all the side effects of his accident, he likes this one least of all.
Granted, it's only the third time he's tried. Tried and failed, again, because while he feels almost as good as new, apparently his libido is entirely different story.
It's not that he's not horny. Or that he doesn't want to get off. Or even that he can't get hard. But rather that, as soon as he settles down to take care of the problem, he finds himself limp. Or else hard and panting and struggling and unable to come.
The latter is worse, by far.
So, of course, today it has to be the second. He can feel it building, tingling along the edge of his spine, but his hand's moving as fast as it can and, for the life of him, he can't quite cross the edge.
Not for the first time, Martin wishes he hadn't destroyed that bowl. He'd really like to have something handy to throw right about now.
He's been through his porn collection twice now. Gay and straight, because he never really knows what's going to work until it does. Been through every fantasy he's ever had too, even ones he swore he'd never use again. Ones like Danny bent over the edge of his couch or Sam on her knees under his desk --which is probably ridiculous because even when they were dating that was the one thing Sam refused to do.
His Sam fantasies are tainted now; too mixed up with reality and it's almost hard to believe he once thought she'd actually be hot in bed. Reality is frost and indifference and distraction and every time Martin thinks of her he ends up limp.
Danny, on the other hand, leaves him hard and wanting and so fucking close that he can practically taste it. Not that it helps, because he still can't come, regardless of how many times he tries and Martin curses before letting his hand fall back to his side.
His phone echoes past the third ring before Martin makes it out of the shower, water dripping onto the floor, towel clenched in one fist as Martin all but dives for the receiver.
It's an off day, which means it's probably Vivian and while he could have just ignored it, finished his shower in peace, the last thing he wants to do is make Vivian worry. She carries too much weight on her shoulders as it is without him adding to him.
"Hey, sorry," he gets out, still panting from his sprint and the throat that clears is decidedly not Vivian.
Hope swells in Martin's chest and he finds himself mentally chanting, please be Jack, please be the call.
Hope fades to uncertainty, uncertainty dissipating into a thousand emotions that he can't even begin to keep track of.
"Danny?" he asks, despite the fact that he knows.
"Is this a bad time?" Danny responds, question hesitant, like he's not actually sure what to say and Martin wants to tell him it's not.
Wants to tell him that a good time was weeks ago, back when Martin first wanted to talk to Danny. Back before eight weeks had passed without so much as a word and the chaotic swirl of emotions in the back of his head settle on anger.
"Of course not," Martin replies, calmer than he feels and Martin hears Danny shuffling on the other side of the line. "What's up?"
"I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing," Danny answers, pausing like it's a good enough reason for calling and Martin's jaw clenches.
"I'm good. Better than I was two months ago," Martin replies before he can stop himself, resentment bleeding into his tone.
For a moment, Danny doesn't answer, the line filling with awkward silence until Martin's forced to mumble a half apology.
"No, it's… sorry," Danny gets out, sounding like he wants to be doing anything but talking to Martin and Martin barely manages to swallow a sigh.
"Forget about it. Any word on when Jack's going to want me back?" Martin asks, changing the topic because it's clear Danny doesn't want to talk about his avoidance.
"I think he's planning on calling you today, actually," Danny answers, still uncertain, but before Martin can ask Sam's voice appears in the background and Danny's making an excuse to leave, hanging up before Martin can get out a reply.
Martin stares at the phone for the better part of twenty minutes before heading back to his shower. Jack doesn't call for another two days.
He makes it in with twenty minutes to spare, despite his best efforts to be early. He barely slept, getting up a full hour before he intended and if it weren't for the three car pile up that forced him to sit in traffic for well over an hour, he probably would have beat Jack in.
Still, it's enough time to get settled in his desk, clearing away the things that Elena left behind --although for all he knows she's still around and he'll be expected to share a desk-- before heading over to the conference table.
Jack's already there, glancing up in surprise like he doesn't remember authorizing Martin's return. The expression vanishes, fading into something Martin can only classify as resolve before Jack clears his throat.
"You're on desk duty for the next few weeks, so don't even think about asking to get out into the field," he says, giving Martin a meaningful glance that suggests that he doesn't expect Martin to last out the week before complaining about being trapped in the office.
Martin only nods, uncertain how to respond aside from promising to behave. The very thought reminds him too much of his childhood, so he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the case files lining the table.
Vivian spares him from Jack's gaze, sliding into the seat across from him and clearing her throat until Jack glances over. Martin tries and fails not to sag with relief.
He glances up to offer her a thankful smile, the impulse vanishing when he spots Danny. He's staring again, from his place beside his desk, coat still in hand and Danny smiles almost hesitantly before dropping off his things, crossing the room to join the rest of the team.
"Welcome back," he says, like he's honestly glad to see Martin, but Martin doesn't miss the slight flicker of fear in his eyes.
"Thanks," Martin forces himself to answer, vowing to forget that one phone call and the months of avoidance.
"I…" is as far as Danny gets before Sam's arriving, slipping into the chair at Jack's left, smiling brightly but the same uncertainty and caution that's written across Danny's face graces hers as well.
Martin doesn't comment. Not even when Elena shows up and grabs the chair from his desk, sliding it over to join the group at the table.
Three weeks of desk duty and Martin's half afraid he might just go crazy before they ever let him out into the field.
He tells himself that at least he's doing something. Something useful that's not sitting around his apartment trying to jerk off. Something meaningful that's not running in endless circles trying to punish his body for failing him.
Elena's contract expires at the end of the month and Martin hopes that means he'll be let out into the field after she leaves. Vivian's already back out there, falling back into it like she never actually stopped.
Jack's even taken to letting him run between floors, allowing him to head downstairs to the one of the labs with evidence on several occasions. He's even sat in on a couple of interrogations and Martin takes that as a good sign.
Sam hasn't spoken to him much. Not after the first day when she invited him out for coffee and he laughed before he could stop himself. He's never actually seen someone turn quite that shade of red, although from anger or embarrassment, he couldn't really tell. He's not a complete asshole, though; he did manage to stifle his laughter and graciously turn down the offer.
Not that it helped.
He has no idea what to think of Danny. Danny's spent the better part of three weeks pretending nothing happened. Pretending Martin never left and didn't almost die and the only reason Martin knows Danny's faking it is because, every so often, he'll catch Danny watching him when he thinks Martin's not looking.
He still hasn't asked Danny those questions that keep coming up. He knows now, through Sam of all people, that Danny was at the hospital. That Danny spent pretty much every night at the hospital, hiding in the hall just outside Martin's room and, if anything, the knowledge has only brought up a whole new set of questions.
He also knows that, at least twice, Vivian spotted Danny sitting outside Martin's apartment, still in his car and Martin's fairly certain the only reason Vivian told him was so that he'd stop glaring every time Danny's back was turned.
He doesn't know what to do with either piece of information.
Three days pass between Martin deciding him and Danny need to talk, and him actually doing something about it.
He decides on a Wednesday, after another long day chained to his desk --completely his now that Elena's gone and Martin will take the victories he can. The decision comes out of nowhere; one minute he's trying to convince Danny that they don't have time to wait, that they should just go out together and given the circumstances he's sure Jack won't mind. The next Danny's shoving him back into his chair, eyes wide and frantic, hands shaking and if Martin didn't know any better he'd swear Danny was on the verge of freaking out.
Completely losing it and, in that moment, Martin decides it's probably a good idea that they talk. Because while he's fine with Danny pretending they never even met a guy named Adisa, he's really not fine with Danny looking at him like he's terrified Martin's going to shatter into a million pieces with even the lightest of touches.
He's certainly not fine with Danny ordering, ordering Martin not to move while he runs out to chase the lead on his own.
He spends the rest of Wednesday reconciling the decision with his own need to merge smoothly back into the team. All of Thursday figuring out what to say. All of Friday trying to get Danny alone. By the time Saturday rolls around, he still hasn't managed to corner Danny and that pretty much leaves him with showing up on Danny's doorstep. He gave up on calling weeks ago.
He runs over, the first time he's been out running since his spill, and it's not until he gets there that he realizes it was a dumb idea. Because he needs strength for this. He needs Danny to see him as strong and capable, not weak and shaking from a two mile run.
He tells himself at least he's burnt off energy he'd otherwise use for yelling before ringing the buzzer, waiting endless seconds before Danny's gruff voice answers. He hadn't anticipated waking Danny up.
"It's me, let me in," he says, tone leaving no room for argument because he came here for a purpose and he's not leaving until Danny stops jumping every time they're in the same room together.
He hears what he thinks might be a curse before the buzzer rings, the door clicking open and Martin jogs inside and up the stairs. Danny's waiting for him by the door, hip pressed against the doorframe, clothes rumpled and Martin can't help but wonder how often Danny sleeps fully dressed.
"It's eight o'clock in the morning, Martin," he says, practically glaring and Martin smiles at the sight of Danny's hair, even more unkempt than it usually is.
"This won't take long," Martin answers, earning an arched eyebrow before Danny shakes his head, steps aside and gestures for Martin to follow him inside.
It's the first time Martin's actually seen the inside of Danny's apartment. Usually, on the off occasions Martin's picked Danny up on the way to a case or the airport, Danny's waiting for him downstairs. It's tidier than he expected, polished in this way that makes Martin wonder about the usually messy state of Danny's desk.
"So exactly what is this?" Danny asks, letting the door fall shut behind him as he crosses his arms and turns to make eye contact. It's the first time in a long time that Martin remembers him doing that.
"This is a fight. Or maybe an interrogation. Or maybe just an explanation for what the hell's going on with you," Martin answers, forcing himself to ignore the contents of Danny's home as he crosses into the living room and sinks down uninvited onto Danny's couch.
From the position, he can't actually see Danny, but he can tell Danny wants to argue. Maybe play dumb and continue to pretend like nothing's wrong. It doesn't matter, though, because Martin's gone over that scenario, so he knows exactly how to respond.
His father would be proud of him for being so prepared.
"You want coffee. I need coffee," Danny says, leaving Martin speechless because nowhere in his carefully laid out plans did Danny need to take a break for coffee.
Only the occasional sip of coffee Danny takes tells Martin he's even alive. He hasn't blinked. Not once and the sight is more than just marginally disturbing. It doesn't help that Danny hasn't said anything. Hasn't offered up any explanation and Martin clears his throat for what feels like the third time in as many minutes.
"Jack told me a bullet grazed your shoulder," Martin finally says, not what he wanted to say, but Danny finally blinks and Martin finds himself releasing a breath.
"It was just a scratch," Danny answers, weary now, expression almost suspicious and Martin nods like he wasn't expecting anything else.
"Aorta, and small intestine," Martin replies, his tone conversational and the topic is so ridiculous he almost feels like giggling.
"Yeah, I know," Danny answers, fingers tightening on the cup that's halfway to his mouth and Martin nods thoughtfully.
It's something he's trained to do, observe people and gauge what they're thinking based on their reaction to certain questions and comments. Right now he's pretty sure Danny's about three seconds away from kicking him out.
"I just figured since you didn't stop by the hospital, you might not know," Martin answers, staring openly, expression as intimidating as he can manage given the circumstances.
"I was there… Martin, what the fuck is this about?" Danny finally responds, setting the cup on the table in front of him, defiance and worry warring openly across his face. Something close to paranoia flickers in his eyes and Martin takes a moment to sip at his coffee before answering.
"I'm worried about you," Martin answers, the words almost a whisper and Danny's eyes widen in shock.
"You're…" he gets out, the words vanishing beneath a bubble of laughter, the sound desperate and lost and just a little bit insane and Martin finds himself frowning.
The second Danny's name leaves Martin's lips Danny falls silent, laughter fading and now Danny just looks angry. Openly hostile and Martin flinches before he can stop himself.
"You're worried about me? Me? I'm not the one who bled out on the scene, Martin. I'm not the one they had to resuscitate in the ambulance, Martin. I'm not the one who spent sixteen hours in surgery, Martin. I'm not the one who spent a week in a coma, Martin. I'm not the one who…"
This time Danny doesn't stop, words coming out faster than Martin can process and of all the things he though might be wrong with Danny, this wasn't it. Logically, Martin knows everyone deals with trauma in different ways, but this is the first time he's seen avoidance shift into hysterical anger.
"Danny," he shouts this time and Danny's words trail off, horror creeping across his features as Danny realizes what he's said.
"I… I think you should leave," Danny says, words slow and careful and Martin stands before he can stop himself, crosses the room and grabs Danny's arm to pull him to his feet.
"I'm not leaving. I know, okay, I know. But none of this was your fault. There was nothing more you could have done. And it doesn't matter, because I'm fine. I'm fine," Martin says, instantly regretting the harsh tone when Danny shies away.
For a moment, Danny doesn't say anything. Doesn't answer. Doesn't move except to stare at his now empty coffee on the table, purposely ignoring Martin's hand still wrapped around his bicep. Martin sighs before releasing his grip, letting his hand fall back to his side and stepping back to give them both some breathing room.
And maybe he should leave. Let Danny sort this out on his own because Danny's always sorted things out by himself. He's never needed anyone and Martin's starting to think that maybe he's just making things worse. Running a shaking hand through his hair, Martin forces himself to turn, step toward the door and pray that, come Monday, everything will be fine between them.
Pray that Danny doesn't fall over the edge if left to his own devices.
"You almost died," Danny whispers behind him, so soft that Martin barely hears. He does, though, picking up on everything Danny's not saying and Martin's knees buckle at the implication.
"I didn't, though," he answers without turning around.
Danny doesn't say anything else, but Martin's almost certain he's nodding. It's enough to know that maybe Danny will be all right. That maybe he can work all this stuff out. Still, it takes effort to force himself forward, pausing only once to look over his shoulder, take in the sight of Danny sitting back in his chair, head tilted back and eyes closed. Martin hesitates for only a moment before slipping out the door, letting it fall closed behind him.
From the time he makes it home until Danny shows up at his door. Martin's not entirely surprised. Danny looks calmer; he's showered and changed and somehow managed to tame his hair and Martin smiles before letting him in.
Danny doesn't wait for an invite before heading into Martin's living room, sinking into Martin's couch and Martin's tempted to laugh at the role reversal. The amusement lasts just until Martin realizes what Danny's looking at, replaced instantly by embarrassment and before Martin can offer up an explanation, Danny's smirking at him.
"Am I interrupting something?" Danny asks, eyes flickering between Martin's red face and Martin's porn collection, currently strewn out across the floor in front of his television set.
"I wouldn't have answered the door if you were," Martin answers, trying and failing to regain at least a little dignity.
"No, I imagine not. Well, at least it answers a few questions," Danny replies, smirk disappearing and Martin abandons dignity, leaning over to push his collection under the television stand, hoping Danny will, just this once, let it slide.
"I tried, you know. To come and visit you afterwards, I mean. I just… I couldn't," Danny continues, once again looking lost and Martin smiles reassuringly. "Once, I actually made it through the door, but… Sam was there and I…"
Danny doesn't finish, but Martin hardly needs him to. Sam was there and I didn't feel welcome. Sam was there and I didn't want to interrupt. Sam was there and it wasn't my place. Sam was there and a thousand reasons that make Martin wish, not for the first time, that he'd never once agreed to follow Sam home.
"You're here now," Martin answers, earning a relieved smile and Martin hesitates before stepping forward, joining Danny on the couch, leaving a small space between them.
"So are we cool?" Danny asks, glancing sideways at Martin and Martin nods before answering.
"Yeah, we're cool," he says, smiling a second time because it still might take a while for things to get back to normal, but at least it's a start.
"Good. Now about that gay porn you have in your collection," Danny says, smirking once again and Martin should have known Danny wouldn't let it go.
Then again, he's not entirely sure that's a bad thing.