Work Text:
Martin was eight years old the first time his father used that line on him and made him go to school with a bad cold and a fever of 101°. Needless to say that by the time the second period began Martin had miserably fallen asleep on his desk.
Up to this day, he’s still not sure how he did it, but somehow he managed to convince the school nurse that he was already feeling a lot better half an hour later, and she really needn’t bother his parents to come pick him up. He never told her that he was afraid to disappoint his father.
At the end of the school day, Martin got home with a dangerously high fever. Alarmed by his flushed complexion, his mother convinced his father to call the doctor.
Six days. That’s how long he stayed in the hospital that time. Afterwards, the doctor told his parents that the bad cold was actually the flu and if they had called it in a little later it might have been too late for Martin.
His mother cried and his father just nodded, looking at him in disapproval as if somehow Martin was to blame for getting sick.
Three times. That’s how often his father repeated the sentence to him. Slightly different each time, but always expressing the same sentiment that a Fitzgerald never gets sick and if they do, they just suck it up like a man and pretend they’re all right.
“Don’t be a baby Martin. Time to get out of bed and go to baseball practice.”
“Don’t act like a child Martin. Get your raincoat. You’re going to the store with me.”
“Stop being such a baby Martin. Your mother is counting on you to help her with the fair. It’s really important to her.”
A grand total of twenty-one days in hospital. And then he traded home for university and it all stopped.
No, Victor Fitzgerald wasn’t an easy man to live with. And in all fairness, he most probably still isn’t, but Martin’s all grown up now and he has long outgrown the wish to please his father. Only …
“Act like a man Martin. Get out of bed and get your ass to work. If you want your colleagues to respect you, you need to show them that a little cold doesn’t keep you from doing your duty.”
Three stupid sentences muttered over the phone and two minutes later Martin starts to move his aching body out from under the blankets covering him. A very nasty cold hit him the day before and once again he’s running a fever.
He almost manages to get out of bed when:
“What are you doing?” Danny asks, stepping inside their bedroom, still buttoning up his shirt, “and who was on the phone just now?”
“My dad. And I’m going to work,” Martin says.
“Well, you doing your dad brings all kinds of ‘I want to scratch my eye-balls out’ visuals I don’t need right now and if work really called? Screw it and go back to bed,” Danny says while gently lifting Martin’s legs back on the bed, covering him with blankets and tucking him in. He lifts a hand and puts it to Martin’s forehead, checks for fever and brushes away a few stray hairs that are sticking to Martin’s sweaty skin. “You’re still very warm,” Danny says, shooting Martin a worried glance, ”I’ll put some Tylenol and orange juice on the nightstand. You might need it later on. And before I forget, I’ve also put some chicken soup in the fridge for you to heat up if you’re hungry. I don’t want you not eating all day.”
“Chicken soup?”
“Yes. Homemade,” Danny replies, walking over to the closet to retrieve another blanket.
“When did you have time to make soup?” Martin asks, burrowing down deeper under the covers as Danny adds the extra blanket.
“Yesterday evening while you were knocked out by the Tylenol,” Danny says, “I went out, bought some fresh ingredients and cooked. I figured you’d need it for today, since I have to go to work and you’ll be here all alone. Nothing as tasty as chicken soup when you’re sick,” Danny says.
The thought of food, any food, makes Martin feel slightly nauseated and he scrunches up his face in disgust, coaxing a big affectionate smirk out of Danny in the process.
“I’m going to work,” Martin stubbornly replies, his father’s voice still haunting him.
“No you’re not. You’re staying here, warm in your bed. There’s no need for you to contaminate the entire Bureau. It’s very likely that you already contaminated me, so that means two people out of commission. Jack will not be a happy camper. Besides, you can’t even properly get out of bed. How will you get to work? Because I’m not driving you anywhere.”
“I’ll find a way,” Martin drowsily replies.
“Sure you will,” Danny fondly says, caressing Martin’s forehead again, “Now go back to sleep so I can leave for work and try to not feel too guilty for leaving you alone today with only the good care of Mrs Delaware from next door. She promised to check up on you once in a while. So, be nice to her.”
“Nice?” Martin huffs, “She called me little lady when we moved in four weeks ago.”
“Yes, well, her eye sight might not be the best, but she’s got a good heart.”
“I suppose,” Martin agrees, too tired to argue.
“Now go to sleep,” Danny whispers, voice laced with affection.
“Okay,” Martin says, already drifting off while he feels Danny’s lips gently on his, whispering into his mouth:
“Love you.”
“Hmmm-ou-too,” Martin mumbles.
It strikes Martin then that Victor Fitzgerald might be an influential man. And as a father he knows exactly which of Martin’s buttons to push, but all of that doesn’t matter anymore.
Because Martin has Danny Taylor now, to watch over him when he’s down and to take care of him when he needs it the most. And for the first time in his life, Martin is able to just let go as he slowly drifts off to sleep.
FIN