“We’re not going into it again, kid. I am never arming you.” James shakes his head. “No, you need to stay here. We don’t want to advertise that we’ve left, so everything needs to look as normal as it can. I’ve got a regular patrol running by your place just in case, but we don’t think it’s going to be an issue this time.”
“Lydia’s got a concealed-carry permit, you know that,” Sam says dismissively. “We’ll be fine. Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go, Dad?”
“I’m sure.” James skirts the desk and pulls Sam into his side, pressing against Sam’s bouncing leg with his own to make it stop. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
“You better be,” Sam mutters, leaning into him and flinging an arm around his waist. “Because I need to go ring shopping, and you know I am not good with jewelry or patience. If our anniversary goes past this year without it, I’m gonna be the one getting shot.”
“I promise,” James says, his voice suddenly thick. He bends to kiss the top of Sam’s head, holding him tighter for a long minute. “I probably won’t be much help, but I’ll be there. I am so damn proud of you, Sammy.”
“Shut it with the emotions,” Sam snaps, clinging tight and then pushing him away. “I am not walking out of here with red eyes, or Kay’s gonna drug test me again, and her tests always involve pinching.”
James and Derek leave from James’s place two days later, with little fanfare and in a rental SUV that Daniel checks for tracking devices and bugs himself. James endures multiple lectures about spotting and evading a tail with mostly good humor. Daniel gets close enough to dart in and hug Derek lightly around the neck for a split second before backing away behind Lara and Ben.
“I told Mom that James is taking you to Alaska but that it was top secret,” Lara says and presses a wet smacking kiss to Derek’s forehead, right between his eyes. “So, she and Dad might be going to Alaska.”
“I just told you to suggest that they take an out-of-state vacation,” James mutters from where Lydia is double-checking the GPS unit and Sam is hugging the breath out of him.
“I like your style,” Sam says, nudging her with his hip as he lets James go and runs his hand along Derek’s shoulder in lieu of a hug. “Look after yourselves.”
“It’ll be fine,” Derek says absently, still blinking in Daniel’s direction.
When they’re in the SUV and on the road, Derek’s seat pushed back to recline and propped up with pillows to keep pressure off his ribs, James looks over and then reaches out to take Derek’s hand. “You’re gonna love this place on Lake George,” he says, and Derek hums in agreement.
“Mom’s best friend when I was a kid had a place just off Saratoga,” he says after a moment. “We used to go there all the time.”
“It’ll be nostalgic, then,” James says, running his thumb over the soft underside of Derek’s wrist. “I expect stories of childhood shenanigans.”
Derek snorts, the first sign of amusement James has seen in days. “If by shenanigans, you mean Lara convincing me and the other kids to do stupid things for her own amusement, then sure.”
“It’s a miracle I met you before her if her criminal-mastermind streak showed so young.” James chuckles, squeezing his hand. “You’d have defended her in court and we’d have been some Capulet and Montague tragedy for the ages. Cop and DA, not a pairing you hear very often, hey?”
Derek snorts again, louder this time, and then winces, rubbing at his sternum with his other hand. “You’re as ridiculous as she is,” he says, and there’s fondness under the exasperation. He squeezes back, and James begins to think that maybe, just maybe, they’ll make it through this. The thought is familiar, a cold déjà vu creeping in, but James shakes it off. They made it last time, after all, and why should this be any different?
Peter hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Daniel in a few days. Cohen has been there most of that time, usually in the afternoons. He’s a hit with the kids at the community center the first time he comes in, but they end up trying to climb him like a jungle gym before long, and as adorable as it is, kiddie feet on a cop’s utility belt is a safety hazard. Peter had no idea they kept so much dangerous stuff in there before Cohen sheepishly lifted a three-year-old away before he ended up hurting himself. It was a mutual decision that he’d wait outside until Peter was done, and they’d get a slice before he clocked on at Marty’s.
It’s the fifth day without any sign of Daniel, and Peter is almost ready to leave when Alysha runs up to him. He props her up on his hip. “You know, if you get any taller, you're gonna be the one carrying me around,” he tells her.
“That's not how this works,” she says, her little fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt. “You're the grown-up so you have to carry me.”
“But what about if you get taller than me?” he asks, keeping the laughter behind his teeth. “Then I wouldn't be able to carry you at all.”
“We could both walk if I was taller than you,” Alysha allows after a moment of intense thought. “Because you're still a grown-up. People don't carry grown-ups.”
“One of the worst parts of growing up,” Peter agrees, shaking his head sadly. Her curls brush against the underside of his jaw. “I haven't had a piggyback in years, did you know that?”
“They're my favorite.” Alysha looks up at him with big, mournful eyes. “I'd be really sad, but you're too big for me to carry you!”
“It's okay.” Peter swings her around to his other hip, delighting in her giggles. “I'll just have to give you extra to make up for it, how does that sound?”
“Yes!” she squeals, scrabbling at his shirt.
Peter glances up and catches sight of a tall, hulking figure against the fence just visible through the window. He recognizes it as Cohen after a second, his heart rate spiking but settling just as quickly. Peter can't lie and say that he doesn't feel safer with Cohen than most of the others who have rotated through. There's something reassuring about his overall presence. He's bigger than Peter, and bigger than most of the people Peter's ever seen before.
Not that he doesn't believe the other officers who hover around his neighborhood are capable, but Cohen is the one who everyone looks at and their thought process of “don't want to mess with him” is almost visible in a speech bubble over their head. When Peter thinks about it, he prefers Cohen to basically every officer that isn't Daniel. Daniel doesn't have the height or the bulk but his presence has a similar effect. Peter knows it’s stupid to miss someone he hasn’t even gotten used to having around, but it doesn’t change the feeling.
He's jerked out of his thoughts by Alysha, two pointy fingers prodding at his cheeks. “Petey!” she demands. “Outside?”
“Not safe out there this close to dark, pumpkin,” he says quickly. “Playtime is inside from five, remember? Besides, I need to leave to go to my other job now, so I wouldn't be able to stay with you out there.”
“I hate when you go to your other job.” Her bottom lip wobbles, and Peter laughs at the theatrics.
“No you don't,” he says, smoothing her skirt down over her leggings and bending down to prop her on her feet. “You have just as much fun when you're here and I'm not as you do when I am. Now, I gotta go, so are you gonna give me a hug?”
“Nope!” She pops the p and plasters herself to his leg in a quick hug before dancing away. “Bye, Petey! See you tomorrow!”
He waves at Miranda and Lottie as he heads toward the coatrack. The weight of the pepper spray is comforting as he pulls it on and slips his hands into the deep pockets, closing his fingers around the can.
Cohen falls into step with him halfway down the block.
“Anything happen?” Peter asks, looking up at him, and Cohen shakes his head.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says. “Others reported in, everything looks clear. Sal hasn't given us any new information, and I haven't heard anything from Daniel about James. All looks pretty quiet.”
“That's good, I guess,” Peter says and flexes
his fingers around the can. “Better than the alternative, anyway. When are you on ’til?”
“Around eleven, probably.” Cohen skirts closer to Peter as a man with his head down barrels closer to them. The man keeps coming right at them and Cohen frowns, urging Peter further toward the building. He barely manages to get out of the man's path in time. “Jesus, is it a full moon?”
“Some people are savages,” Peter says, shaking his head. “No sidewalk manners. You okay?”
“Yeah.” Cohen pats himself down. “Come on, we should keep moving. Don't want to be late for your shift.”
“I'm starving,” Peter agrees. “I'm sure Marty will let you jump the queue for a slice. I think he likes you.”
“That’s because I talk technique with him,” Cohen says, fingers of one hand pressed together and then splaying them out in imitation of Marty. “Instead of just ‘tomato sauce is tomato sauce, Marty’ like the rest of you.” He frowns. “Heathens.”
Peter tosses his head back and laughs. “The Church of Cheese Pizza?”
“Pepperoni and cheese,” Cohen corrects.
“Can’t forget the meat.” Peter snickers into his hand as Cohen makes an affronted sound, ducking the swat he aims at Peter’s head.
Later, elbow-deep in suds and lemon-scented fumes, Peter keeps catching himself drifting back to Daniel. Drifting back is a relative term because it isn’t like Daniel’s been particularly far from his mind for a lot longer than just the few days since the hospital. Peter knows that he’s a romantic at heart, that sometimes he sees things that aren’t exactly as they seem and that it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen head over heels with no idea of what was waiting at the end. He’s spent hours telling himself those things, over and over and over, until he knows them inside out. It doesn’t do anything to dull the roaring tide inside him whenever the thinks about Daniel’s fingers around his wrist or tangled with his own, or the fierce possessiveness at the thought of Cohen taking Daniel back to an empty apartment when he’d been defenseless and flayed-open after those long hours in the cafeteria. Peter’s got no idea whether Daniel remembers half of the things they talked about, well, Peter talked about, during those hours. Peter does, though, he remembers all of them, and they’re things that he hasn’t told anyone.
Daniel hadn’t punched him when he’d kissed him out of the blue, after all. When he’d been worn thin and exhausted, he’d fallen asleep in the car and on Peter’s sofa. He’d obviously felt safe enough to let his guard down and trust that he’d be looked after. Peter would be willing to bet everything he owns that it’s been a long time since Daniel’s felt that safe anywhere. Since he’d been vulnerable like that.
Peter’s an anxious person by nature. He’s not confident or physically intimidating or particularly skilled at anything, but he knows who he is, deep down. He can’t throw much of a punch or fire a gun or predict a criminal’s behavior with any degree of accuracy, but he sure as hell knows how to take care of someone he cares about. He’d been in the cruiser with Cohen when the radio had burst into life with crackling and panic. Most of the words he’d picked out had been bad ones and it had taken a few minutes of Cohen barking back into the radio for Peter to untangle what had even happened. He’d been sure that it had been Daniel who’d been hurt, hearing the calls of “Callahan, come in!” go unanswered, but then Daniel’s voice had risen over the static and the background noise, ordering everyone to stand down and that he was on the scene.
Come what may, whether that’s a punch in the face or reciprocation or anything in between, he needs to make sure Daniel knows that. Before anything else goes wrong and the chance gets taken away from him.
Daniel swings the door open, expecting the usual delivery boy from the Chinese place three blocks down and therefore totally caught off guard when he recognizes Peter. “What—what are you doing here?” He leans out into the hall, looking both ways and then jerking Peter into his apartment by the front of his shirt and slamming the door shut behind him. “Where's your detail? Jesus—”
“Cohen is by the elevator, you paranoid nut,” Peter says, and then his hand is fisted in the front of Daniel's overlarge jersey and he's pulling him closer.
Daniel drops his hold on Peter's shirt in surprise and makes a vague, questioning sound. Actual words seem too difficult around his suddenly dry mouth and wouldn’t have made it past Peter anyway. His lips are against Daniel’s, soft and gentle and completely at odds with the fierceness of his grip. His other hand lands in an awkward place between Daniel’s jaw and his cheek before sliding up, fingertips curling into the hair behind Daniel’s ear. Daniel opens his mouth, not sure whether it’s because he’s still considering whether to try saying something or out of surprise, and then Peter’s teeth catch his bottom lip teasingly.
Peter lets go of his jersey and then his hand is under it, a searing brand against the small of his back, pressing them together from chest to hip. Heat floods Daniel’s body as his shoulders hit the wall by the door and then his hands are on Peter’s back too, brushing over the wings of his shoulders. Peter’s fingers hook into the band of his sweats and jerk his hips forward. Daniel’s head thuds back against the wall, a gasp breaking free when the motion tears their mouths apart. Peter’s mouth finds his bared throat a second later, and Daniel wrests control back, head spinning.
“The—the sofa,” he pants. “Come on!”
“Good idea,” Peter murmurs against the soft skin under his jaw, not even looking up as Daniel tries to steer them, stumbling, toward the sofa. His fingers are digging into Daniel’s hips, grip unrelenting, but he looks up and meets Daniel’s eyes when their shins bump against the sofa. “No running away this time,” he says and there’s steel in his voice.
His eyes are hooded, pupils blown, and Daniel shakes his head, words dying in his throat. He changes direction, fumbling for Peter’s hand instead. “No,” he says and drags him down the hall. “No running away.”
Daniel wonders, later, whatever happened to his order from the Chinese place. The thought doesn’t last long, not with the sweat cooling on their bare skin and Peter’s fingers carding through his hair. The street noise is distant and dim, the sounds of their breathing and his own heartbeat in his ears the only things close enough to focus on. Words seem out of reach and it’s nice, to just stop and exist for what feels like an endless moment.
Peter makes sounds every now and then, a whuff of breath when he shifts under Daniel’s weight or a soft sigh when Daniel moves. He doesn’t force conversation, seemingly content to stay silent while Daniel figures his own head out. Logically, he knows that they need to talk about them, but that seems too big, too confronting for a moment like this. A conversation that probably needs clothes and coffee and maybe sunlight. Not stretches of naked skin and the glow of streetlights casting shadows from around the curtains.
“James went with Derek,” Daniel says eventually, not sure where the words come from as he stares at the contrast between his fingers and Peter’s bare skin. He’s never really thought of his skin as tanned, but compared to Peter’s pale stomach, he can’t think of another word for it. “I told him I thought Derek would be safer somewhere upstate and he agreed. I didn’t expect him to decide to go with him, not while all this is still going on.”
“I think it was the best thing he could have done,” Peter murmurs. His hand is splayed out now, cradling the back of Daniel’s head, and his fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp. “He never could have concentrated on the case with Derek somewhere else, and Derek wasn’t safe here. He knew that if anyone else could do this, it’s you.”
“My track record against Fairhall isn’t great.” Daniel closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the bumps of Peter’s ribs.
Peter’s breath huffs out, Daniel’s head dipping with it, and he tugs at Daniel’s hair. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it lights up the nerve endings all the way down Daniel’s spine. He can’t hold back the noise he makes, but he can’t name it eit
her.
The sound Peter makes, though? That’s definitely a sound of interest.
James and Derek have been gone just over a week, and the city is quiet. Unrest prickles at the back of Daniel’s neck during nearly all of his waking hours, something big and dangerous lurking just out of sight. The unsolved gang murders and the lack of any contact from Coy Fairhall or Jake Bartlett has been driving him not-so-slowly mad despite Peter’s best efforts at distraction. They still haven’t talked, but Daniel’s willing to give them both a pass on that considering the circumstances. Also, he thinks he’d put it off forever if it means that they keep spending nights at his place and he never has to see Tia’s smug face.
Cohen spends most of his time either watching Peter or backing Daniel up at the precinct, which is a relief. Daniel had never realized how many people reported to James before they started coming to him. Roger Murphy is technically in charge, but Daniel can’t blame most of the younger officers for coming to him instead.
He knows that Roger’s a great guy and an even better cop, but he’s older, gruffer and more intimidating than James in his worst mood. He makes Daniel feel like he’s barely out of the academy every time he looks at him.
James sends a text message every day—just a couple of words, a rolling-eye emoji, sometimes a blurry picture of a tree—and it goes a long way toward settling the worry about them. He’s shoved away the memory of Derek’s face just before he’d disappeared into the bullpen and the words they’d thrown at each other. It’s firmly locked away, to be dealt with once they can. When there’s not the better part of an entire state between them and two psychopaths baying for their blood.
Daniel really hopes they get the chance, but he can’t waste time wishing when there are ghosts to chase through the streets of New York City.
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