Spoilers: Meh.

Disclaimer: Anyone agree with me (sorry, Martin) on the football front? I just find it hilarious.

Author's Note: Cliché. Martin swims, Danny ogles. (Who in their right mind wouldn't?)

A coping mechanism. That's what his counselor had called it. Why don't you join the swim team? She had asked more than once. And each time, his answer had been the same: silence. He hadn't wanted to go to these sessions. God, if his father found out that he was sharing his problems – well, supposed to be – with a stranger, he'd be in for it. The only reason he'd agreed to go was because they'd threatened to call his father and tell him that his son needed counseling.

Which, if anyone had bothered to ask Martin, was entirely ludicrous. There were kids at school with much worse problems than he had ever had. Kids who dealt drugs, despite not needing the money; kids who picked on younger grades because they had nothing better to do; kids who liked school; kids who got drunk every weekend and slept with any girl around and willing. Sometimes not willing.

His hands hit the water with more force.

But no one knew these kids. No one paid attention to any of this because it was normal. It was normal to rebel, to defy mom and dad, to defy the society they'd been brought up in. What was not normal was shutting yourself off. What was not normal was spending every minute of class actually working, reading through lunch hour, and staying late to study. What was not normal was acing every class without the marks having been paid off by enthusiastic parents, being sincerely polite to the teachers, kind to the other staff, and actually intending to get somewhere in life on your own terms.

He spun and pushed off the wall.

He was fine. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't depressed; he wasn't a drug addict, or a whore, like most of the other boys. And if it weren't for the students, school wouldn't be too bad. He grinned at that. He wondered briefly how many boys would transfer if they found out their classmate was a pervert.

His strokes doubled in speed.

Now that would be quite something to tell his therapist. My father hates me, my mother doesn't want me, my classmates think I'm a freak… oh, and I'm gay. Oh yes, that would go down well. He had a feeling even level-headed – anything you want to tell me, Martin, anything­ – Ms Pettier would have trouble with that one. He wondered how long it would take the rest of the school to find out. Wondered who it would be to tell them. Would it be brought up in the Parent Association meeting?

Who would rush home to tell their sons? Your classmate is a queer; we're taking you out of that school. Of course, he knew that he wasn't the first kid who had attended that school and feel the way he did. He probably wasn't even the only one in his year. He was just the only one who didn't bother hiding it. He didn't prove himself by sleeping with a different girl every weekend, or by playing macho games. Ironic, really, that a game based on tight pants, pile-ons and ass-whipping in the locker rooms was 'macho'. There was an awful lot of unnecessary gripping and grunting that went on in football.

His strokes slowed again.

He pictured the look that would adorn his English teacher's face if he handed in an assignment on the homoeroticism of American Football. That might actually be worth it. It wasn't like he couldn't pull it off with a fair amount of finesse and credibility. He had a way with the written word – one that eluded him in speech – that meant he could bluff his way through a three thousand word essay while watching Star Trek reruns. And still get an 'A'.

He wondered if he could write himself out of therapy. If it meant not having to listen to Ms Pettier run on about socializing and community again – not Socialism and Communism, which were things he could talk about – he would probably be the better for it. He considered forging a note from his father, but then the school would be bound to try and confirm things. To their credit, they were a school that wasn't afraid of their clientele. They couldn't afford to be, really. Though, that didn't stop them from taking bribes. Well, bribes that were technically called 'donations'.

He breathed a stroke early for laughter.

He thought it fitting that he might drown – in the school's deserted pool, in the middle of the night, alone – because he was laughing at the hypocrisy and bureaucratic nonsense that kept this place running. Irony, he was starting to realize, was inescapable as it was funny. He wondered how long it would take for someone to notice. He quickly dismissed that thought; now he was just being bratty. Besides, the swim team would be in here at six tomorrow morning. That gave him a good seven hours.

He chuckled as he hauled himself out of the pool.

Coping mechanism, my ass.

Five.

Each stroke hit the water with a precise force. Five laps and not even out of breath. He blamed the adrenaline for this; for not being able to sleep, for not being able to just shut off. But he knew that wasn't really true. Physically, yes, the adrenaline had shot into his system with enough force to make him pull that trigger without hesitation. But it hadn't gone away, left him to fizzle and burn out like it usually did. No, today it was sticking with him. It scared him, really, that adrenaline could be so powerful as to make him shoot someone. Not kill, but shoot.

But what scared him more was that there was this niggling little voice in the back of his mind that said If he had have died, the adrenaline would be gone. And he sort of believed that. It was very, very possible. His body seemed to agree, but his conscious didn't want the thought; the idea that he wasn't sated because the man had lived. It was wrong. It was beyond wrong.

Six.

And he had been congratulated. Jack had nodded, Viv smiled, Sam spoke words that didn't even register as sound; hell, a couple of officers he didn't even know had spoken to him with a sort of reverential pride. Good shot; he's going to live and get what he deserves. Which was true, Martin knew. Despite his line of work, he was still as against the death penalty as ever, and to be the one to deliver it – before any kind of trial, no less – was never something he had wanted to do.

Seven.

Congratulated by everyone. Everyone but Danny. Danny had looked at him solemnly and frowned, as if he knew everything that Martin felt; every thought he didn't want anyone to hear. He hadn't been disappointed, or congratulatory, or anything that he should have been. He had been understanding, even though they hadn't spoken a word to each other since.

Eight.

He still couldn't call this a coping mechanism. No, a coping mechanism was pills. Ineffective save for a few minutes of such intense nothingness that death might well have happened, but it was an attempt to cope. Swimming seemed to be just the opposite. Swimming didn't drown the thoughts out; it brought them to the forefront of his mind. It let him stew over things that his otherwise occupied mind would never let him. Which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Something he loved and something he loathed combined to make this exceptionally cleansing exercise.

Nine.

He felt the adrenaline start to wear off, making his muscles work that little bit harder for their goal. His shoulders ached, his kicking slowed, breaths finally becoming shallower, leaving him gasping on every third stroke instead of breathing every fifth. The burning started in his chest, and this wasn't all from the swim. He'd felt the ebb of adrenaline more than enough times to recognize it, but combined with the exhaustion that the last case had already left him with, it was almost too much.

Almost, but not quite. He could make his tenth lap, and he knew he wanted to. The more exhausted he was – emotionally, mentally and physically – the better he knew he'd sleep. It had been that way throughout school as well. He pictured the pool he had spent a great deal of his youth in, trying to recall the problems that had seemed so dire when he was a teenager. It didn't take much effort; most of them were still kicking around in his head in some form or another. Bureaucratic nonsense, hypocrisy, stupid kids doing stupid things, feelings that he couldn't tell anyone about.

Ten.

As if on cue, his limbs gave out, his breathing faltered, and he found himself clinging to the wall with a desperation he'd be ashamed of if he weren't alone. If he weren't so damned exhausted. Risking drowning, he loosened his death-grip on the wall and removed his goggles, tossing them carelessly away. His muscles ached as his grip loosened a little, and he knew that yes, he would sleep well tonight. Well, much better than he would have without the swim. He sighed, feeling every muscle involved, and tried to hoist himself up. Failing the fist time – and cursing whoever made pool walls a foot and a half higher than the water – he groaned.

"You need a hand?"

Martin's head snapped up at the sound, adrenal glands on the ready again. That was the last thing he needed. Or maybe not, because he managed a scowl, which was more than he could say a few seconds ago. The pool was dark enough that all he saw was a vague silhouette and a few moonlit features. It was enough, though, and he ignored the offered hand and hoisted himself – amazingly – out of the pool, remembering again what gravity was as he stumbled a little.

"What are you doing here, Danny?" he asked, too tired to be annoyed. Or, for that matter, have a conversation. The silhouette offered him something that he quickly saw was a towel, and Martin was a little surprised by the gesture. He took it, though, without words, and ruffled it through his hair. The pool was the one place he'd never felt self-conscious, even as a teenager. Which was entirely counterintuitive, considering he was pretty much in underwear.

"You looked shaken… and buzzed," he said calmly, following Martin as he grabbed his goggles and moved to his bag. It struck Martin again how very odd Danny was; how very odd their relationship was. Danny hadn't only noticed his discomfort, like he'd thought; he'd noticed the energy that had left him so confounded. He looked at Danny, knowing he probably had more to say, and not really having the energy to respond. "Thought I'd check on you," he continued.

Martin could see a small smirk on his face, and knew that his words were chosen specifically to get a rise out of him. And they did, a little, Martin instantly wanting to shut down, or tell Danny off for worrying when, obviously, he was fine. But he didn't. And he wasn't. And right now, he didn't have the energy to lie. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that.

"I'm dealing," was what he settled for, picking up his bag and heading for the change rooms. Maybe that would make Danny go away, because he didn't want to have this conversation. All he wanted to do was go home, strip off, and fall into bed; he wanted to let himself sleep, for once undisturbed by those all-too-common dreams. To his surprise, he heard a chuckle; not mocking as he'd come to expect, but light, amused, and almost affectionate.

"I'd call ten laps 'dealing'," Danny agreed as Martin set his things down on the bench in the change rooms. Which were considerably lighter than the pool. Looking at Danny now, he saw that he had changed from his suit into 'street clothes': jeans, tee-shirt, jacket, sneakers. He also saw concern in his eyes, though a small smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Martin sighed again.

It was then that what Danny had said really registered. And while he wanted to tell him to leave, he had to know. "How long have you been here?" he demanded without anger. It was more amusing to think that Danny might actually have been patient, and for that long. It had been a good forty-five minutes.

"Long enough," he answered, seemingly unfazed, as if this were something he did all the time. Not that Martin would put that past him. "Does it work?"

The question made him pause for a second, staring at his partner, until he realized what he had meant. "A little," he said honestly. There weren't all that many things he could really have said. If he said 'yes', Danny would know the lie right away; Martin knew that his emotions were as good as written all over his face. If he said 'no', well, that would just be stupid.

The other man nodded, but began to stare at him with such intensity that he lifted the forgotten towel, moving to wrap it around his waist. It didn't immediately occur to him what was going on when Danny's hand reached out to stop him; grabbing the towel gently. The look in Danny's eyes was enough to make him let go of the towel, allowing him to toss it onto the bench next to them.

"There are better ways of dealing, Fitz," he said softly. Martin was surprised; this was a new emotion for Danny. He hadn't seen him so sincere before; at least, not without anger or grief overshadowing it. But this was simply honesty. And it caught him off-guard enough that he didn't think to react when Danny took a step closer, heat coming off his body reminding Martin that he was wet, and rather cold.

When it did occur to him that Danny was very, very close, that he was almost naked, and that those eyes with that emotion were still trained on him, all he could manage in the way of argument or protest was a quiet, "Danny…"

But it came out much less threatening that it was supposed to, fatigue taking over his brain and making him just give in. But knowing his voice held an undeniable amount of longing didn't stop his surprise when Danny kissed him. What was more surprising was that Danny kissed him lightly; hands softly placed either side of his face, as if they were lovers, not colleagues. As if this wasn't their first kiss. As if this were perfectly normal.

As his mind finally caught up, Danny pulled away and just looked at him; stared with an odd intensity that made him blush. This seemed to satisfy Danny's curiosity, and he smiled at Martin as if he had just realized something especially important. Which, perhaps, he had. Martin couldn't help but smile back as he did, too: he wouldn't be needing the pool for much longer.

What do you think? Review? I'll give you a cookie!

Giorgia