Flack was rather rudely awoken a few hours later by Ozzie Osborne screaming “ALL ABOAAARD!” then laughing maniacally. He jerked and groaned as he abruptly regained consciousness and rolled over to smack either the radio/alarm or Danny. Whichever was closer. The radio/alarm was. Flack let out a relieved sigh into the silence that followed turning it off. It was seven in the morning. Not that you could tell. The sky was nothing but dark, ominous looking clouds and Flack fancied that he could hear groans of thunder over the city noise.

He realized that he was alone in bed and that he could hear the shower going. He lay back for a moment, revelling in the actual normalcy of this. Whoever’s place they spent the night at would get up when the alarm went, hit ‘snooze’, and jump in the shower first. Flack wasn’t sure which of them had started it, but it’d quickly become common practice. Although, if the guest ever woke up before the snooze went off, or the host was still in the shower when it did, odds where that it’d turn into a joint shower.

Flack pushed the blankets back and stripped his t-shirt off. Still sprawled across Danny’s bed, he lowered his eyes and stared at the bandage taped to his belly. One corner was peeling up from lifting the tape too many times to check the wound, and it was a little damp from Danny’s holding his hand to it all night. Flack reached down, snagged the loose corner, and tugged till the bandage pulled off.

The wound was still swollen and bruising – something that’d surprised him – but it wasn’t quite as ugly. Now it was just a very imperfect and jagged circle of stitches. He expected it to be either sickly white or angry red, it’s actually pink and a little shiny where the scabs aren’t rusty brown. The sutures would be removed in about three weeks.

Resolved, Flack got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He kept telling himself that it was time to wash the wound and put a fresh bandage on. And he needed to coerce Danny into calling into work sick anyway, which was the kind of thing one would want to get out of the way while the Messer was still a little groggy with sleep and sick.

The bathroom door was unlocked – and Flack wasn’t quite sure why he felt a brief flash of panic that it wouldn’t be, but he’s thankful that it was – and he slipped into the shower behind his lover.

Danny was standing under the hot water with his shoulders slumped, his head tilted back so he was catching the spray in the face and neck and his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Flack wasn’t sure how he was able to breathe, especially since he was congested, but figured if he wasn’t unconscious in the bottom of the tub, he was at least okay.

Flack stepped up right behind him, snaked both arms around the other man’s waist and hips and pulled him into his chest, hugging him close and backwards so the strong spray wasn’t hitting Danny’s right in the face.

Danny groaned and tipped his head back onto Flack’s shoulder.

“Flackie. I feel like shit. I’m dyin’.” His voice was raspy and rattling.

“Overdramatic,” the taller man muttered before pressing a couple kisses onto Danny’s neck. “You are not dyin’. And don’t call me that.”

Before Danny could utter a single snarky word, Flack slid a hand lower.

The heat and water, added to the facts that he had been starved for Flack’s touch for two weeks and was sick, took away a lot of Danny’s usual inhibitions. He didn’t bother holding back his groans or whimpers and didn’t make any attempt to sty his orgasm. He just closed his eyes, leaned back into the taller man’s arms, letting him more or less hold him up, and got lost in the sensation of Flack slowly squeezing and tugging his now hard cock, occasional dropping lower to fondle his balls or higher to skim the hand over his belly before moving back to continue jerking him off.

Danny gripped Flack’s other hand tightly against his sternum in both of his own and gritted his teeth as he came, trying to make sure he locked his knees as he did. Flack didn’t stop his ministrations until he was sure Danny was finished, letting the shower wash them clean of ejaculation. He was half-hard himself, but had pushed away all thoughts of his own pleasure for later, when Danny felt a little better. Or could at least stand on his own.

Suddenly Danny jerked and twisted around and away from him. Flack swore and slapped a hand against the wall to hold his balance in the slippery tub.

“Christ, Messer, what’re you doin’?”

Danny slipped a little, caught himself and squinting fearfully down at the other man’s body. His eyes were bloodshot and, other than his cheeks which were blotchy with fever, his skin was sickly pale. He was unshaven and Flack could see he was trembling now.

“Sorry. M’sorry, Don. I forgot. ‘Bout your belly. You okay? Did I…?”

Flack scowled and looked away from him. He felt self-conscious, something that was rather alien, but still very unpleasant.

“Forgeddabout, Messer,” Flack ordered, bringing a hand up to cover the wound, but making himself drop it before it could make it.

Danny grimaced, then nodded and said hoarsely, “Okay, I just…did I hurt it? Tell me. I saw the way you were movin’ last night, all stiff and all.”

“No. It’s sore…It’s healing aches, y’know? My body’s recoverin’. That’s all. Now drop it. Please.”

“…Yeah. Sure, fine.” Danny paused. After a second, he nodded again, this time mostly to himself. “Listen, I gotta go to work-”

“No. No way.”

“Flack-”

“Danny-”

“C’mon!”

“No!”

“Fuck you, you’re not my mother, you overbearing sonuva-”

“You’re sick, pal. You go in and you’ll infect the whole lab and all the evidence and Mac will gimme that look and Adam’ll whine and Stella will rip my nuts off for lettin’ you come in. So, no. You ain’t goin’ in today,” Flack said firmly.

“Now who’s bein’ overdramatic?” Danny grumbled.

Rolling his eyes, Flack took hold of Danny’s shoulders and rubbed at the man’s collarbones with his thumbs in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

Danny groaned and his body lulled slightly into the touch.

Flack smirked in victory and said, “C’mon. If you call, I’ll make soup.”

Pouting, Danny shook his head and started to shy away from the hot shower spray. “I don’t want soup. I’m too hot now.”

“You got ice cream?”

“Vanilla.”

Flack nodded and nudged him out of the shower. He stepped back into his boxers wet, but wrapped a big towel around Danny’s back. They went back into the bedroom and Flack changed into a pair of clean shorts he’d left at some point and Danny put on sweatpants. Flack made him put on a thermal shirt too and reached for his own t-shirt, the one he’d been wearing all night. He was stopped halfway through putting it on by Danny’s hand.

“Leave it off. Gimme a minute and I’ll put a fresh dressing on the wound. And that shirt has my come on it from last night anyway.”

“Danny…” Flack sighed and threw the tee over his shoulder. “Fine. Call Mac.”

The CSI started to obey, then turned and gave Flack a one-shouldered shrug. “It ain’t that bad. I mean, it was bad, yeah. But it don’t look too bad.”

Flack sighed and managed an honest half-smile. “Thanks, Dan. I-”

Danny waved a hand, cutting him off, and stumbled off in the general direction of the phone. “Geddoutta here, Donnie. Don’t worry ‘bout, awright? Just get me my ice cream and we’ll call it even.”

Flack’s half-smile turned into what was almost his trademark broad grin. “Pushy bastard.”

“Over-protective dick!” he heard Danny weakly call back.

CSINYCSINYCSINY

Twenty minutes later, Danny was sitting at his kitchen counter, silently watching Flack scoop the ice cream. The taller man seemed to be concentrating on only serving the vanilla, frowning slightly, but he was actually barely thinking about it. He was wearing a fresh t-shirt, one of Danny’s that had been a hand-me-down from Louie, and was really concentrating on not bringing his hand up to touch the clean new bandage strapped to his abdomen. It was getting to be a compulsion. When he was talking to his father on the phone, thinking about the explosion or Aiden, worrying about Danny or his sister, seeing something violent on TV, listening to too much Tom Waits, lost in thought about anything really…his left hand just gravitated to the wound, palming it lightly like Danny had been doing when they fell asleep for the second time last night. It wasn’t a bad gesture or anything, but he worried about Danny or Stella or Mac noticing and making a deal about it.

Finally he pushed a full bowl of ice cream towards Danny and started in on his own.

After a moment, he glanced across the counter and noticed that Danny was just sitting there, slumped with his head down resting on his own bicep, glumly pushing the ice cream around the bowl, softening it, but not eating it.

“When I was a kid,” Flack said offhandly, “Whenever one of us had a birthday, my mom would bake chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, buy a big tub of Neapolitan ice cream and let us have as much as we wanted for breakfast. Only time I ever got anything but Cheerios or scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast.”

Danny raised his eyes listlessly. “Lucky. Louie’s allergic to diary, so we never got ice cream at home, ‘cause me gettin’ it only made him feel bad. My old man would sneak me out after baseball sometimes though.” He told the story with none of his usual enthusiasm or hand gestures.

Flack grimaced in sympathy at his miserably ill friend. “You okay there, Messer?”

“I feel like shit…Are we okay, Don?”

Pushing his bowl away slowly, Flack sighed. “I think so. At least, we are from my end.”

Danny closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up a little and took a couple bites of ice cream.

“Yeah, mine too,” he muttered finally. “We’re good.”

“Danny…I’m sorry, pal, ‘bout all this crap we had to go through to get here.” Flack hurried on before the other man could protest his apologies. “No, you gotta listen. I…I shouldn’ta acted the way I did the past two weeks. It was really asshole-ish.”

Danny looked at him with those piercing grey-blue eyes. “Fine, ‘pology accepted. But only if you accept my ‘pology for bein’ such a screw-up. I…I’m still tryna figure this whole 'strong enough for another person' thing. You gotta gimme time and not-so-subtle hints. But I don’t wanna talk ‘bout any of that right now. Right now I just wanna finish my ice cream and crash on the couch for a few hours.”

Flack pressed his lips together to avoid making a snarky comment or asking a frustrated question. Danny could be such an oddball. He exuded such charisma and confidence at work and with other people and took every challenge with an eagerness that sometimes made Flack want to throttle him. But underneath it all, he thought so poorly of himself. He was so sure that he was nothing but a screw-up who lucked into a job with the CSU, which was why he pushed himself so hard to please Mac. But at the same time, he was his own man and never did anything that didn’t sit right with him, even if it meant failing in Mac’s or his father’s eyes. But Flack was occasionally confronted with the man begging him to help him out of a crisis, be it big or small. Danny Messer was just so complicated, back and forth, up and down, emotions – particularly anger – running all over the place and controlling his decisions.

And the way he reacted to things…Sometimes he took those way too personally and could hold a grudge till doomsday. Other stuff just rolled right off his back without a second thought. And sometimes, Danny was completely unreadable and you had no idea where you stood. There was no way to predict which category a rough incident or misjudged word would fall.

But today it looked like Danny was going with door number two, thank God.

“And where does my dumb ass fit into this little game plan of yours, sporto?” he asked instead of trying to push the subject.

“Depends. You willin’ to sit through Good, th’Bad and th’Ugly for the eight millionth time?”

“Aw fuck, again?”

“It’s my sick movie!”

“It’s your everythin’ movie. It’s like an obsession. You and that fuckin’ movie should gedda a room.”

“Nah, 'cause then you’d get all jealous on me and threaten to break the tape’s kneecaps and I’d hafta placate you with head, which I am currently too congested to deal with at this time and juncture. Now c’mon. Ole Clint awaits.”

Flack huffed and picked his bowl back up, gesturing towards the living room area. “Lead on, oh great one,” he growled sarcastically.

Danny gave him a weary but still feral grin, grabbed a couple tins of ginger ale from the fridge and headed for the couch; sauntering as well as he could in his condition. Flack muttered ‘whadda dweeb’ under his breath – loudly enough for Danny to hear of course –and followed right behind him.