Disclaimer: Without a Trace is owned by people other than me. I'm making no profit and derive only personal satisfaction from the writing this bit of fiction.

Notes: This follows sometime after the episode "When Darkness Falls" when I got tired of waiting for the series' writers to address Martin's drug issues. While it is a little AU for the series I hope you still enjoy it. Martin and Danny are the focus of the story, with a bit of Jack and Vivian thrown in. Special thanks to Beth Green for answering medical questions and providing research links and Julie for her beta work. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Danny was several hours past ready to go home and sleep. The first half of his day wasted by the hurry up and wait which so often accompanied testifying in court. Nothing quite compared to sacrificing four and a half hours of your life to spend twelve minutes testifying. He should probably just be grateful it hadn't sucked up his whole day. Returning to the office he had quickly been buried by paperwork and research as the other members of his team continued their field interviews. The only one he saw much of was Martin. A pale, distracted and still too-damn-thin Martin.

Danny shook his head. Martin was okay. He just had a rough couple of months. Multiple gunshot wounds were not the easiest things to bounce back from. The recent tumble down the stairs certainly did not help. But he was recovering, right? So what if Martin's suit looked a little rumpled or he seemed to have trouble focusing on the case. If there was really a problem Martin would ask for help. Danny really needed to stop obsessing about his coworker, because there was nothing wrong with Martin, even if he was still sitting in his truck almost two hours after he supposedly left for home.

Danny's steps stuttered. He glanced at his watch and then back at Martin's truck. Martin said goodbye to the rest of the team almost an hour and forty-five minutes ago. So why was he still sitting there apparently contemplating the mysteries of his lap? On impulse Danny walked around to the passenger side and tried the door handle. Finding it unlocked he climbed in and asked, "So where are we off to, partner?" Danny's attempt at levity was not well taken by Martin, whose expression looked something akin to a deer caught in headlights.

"We, um, that is I . . ." Martin stammered while his hand clutched a small bottle of pills.

Danny tried to shake off the sinking feeling in the bottom of his gut. "So, is that jacked-up hip still giving you problems?" Danny tried to keep his voice casual as he motioned to small the cylindrical container. It was impossible to miss the rattle of pills when Martin pulled the bottle to his chest, protecting it from Danny. Fuck, this was not what Danny thought it was. It couldn't be what Danny thought it was.

Martin swallowed and straightened before insisting, "The hip's still a bit sore, but I'm fine. Just taking care of business." His forced half-smile more pleading than reassuring.

Just taking care of business. Danny had heard those same words from Martin before. Danny wasn't sure if he had been lying about it then, but he was obviously lying now. Just as Danny obvious needed to call him on it. "Martin," he waited until his partner looked at him. "Please don't, man. Tell me to get out of your truck. Tell me to keep my nose out of your business. But please don't lie to me."

Martin's eyes seemed to swim with shame before he looked away. For several long minutes neither man spoke. Danny waited for Martin to order him out of the truck or even explain what was really going on. Though it was getting harder and harder for Danny to convince himself he didn't know exactly what was going on. Unable to stay quiet any longer Danny broke the silence, "Maybe you should talk to your Doctor. See about getting a different dosage."

Martin let out a harsh and surprisingly bitter bark of laughter. "I went through a twenty-one day supply of pain meds in five days, Danny. I don't think the Doctor's going to be handing out any more prescriptions."

Danny barely held back a gasp as he mentally calculated how many drugs Martin took. How had things with Martin gotten so bad so fast? How had he not seen what been happening? Because you didn't look, whispered a little voice in his head, because you haven't wanted to look at Martin since the shooting. Danny ruthlessly buried the thought. No time for a pity party. He needed to focus on Martin. "But you still have some left," said Danny, "I heard the rattle." He still wanted to believe that things weren't as bad as Martin implied.

Martin closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. "These aren't mine," he whispered. "I went out with Vivian this morning to interview the Doctor who treated our missing person. The Doc got called to another patient, the nurse left to get the file, Jack called Vivian on the phone, and I just picked it up off their drug cabinet shelf. Didn't even think about what I'd done until we were driving back to the office. I tried to throw them in the trash. Must have spent at least half an hour in the bathroom trying to convince myself to flush them down the toilet." Martin stared at the bottle, his fingers in a white-knuckled grip around it. "I just . . . I couldn't . . ."

"Let go," finished Danny. Martin just nodded. Looking at Martin across the cab of his vehicle Danny remembered another vehicle: a cold, frosty car and a bottle of liquor that had combined to help Danny wreck his own life. But maybe, just maybe he could prevent Martin from doing the same. "You're wrong, Martin. You can let go." Martin shook his head. "You're one of the strongest people I know, a lot stronger than a bunch of pills. Just let it go." Martin still shook his head, but now his hand shifted on the bottle: clutch, release, and clutch and then release. Danny dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'm right here, Martin. I'll catch you. Just let go."

The instant the bottle dropped to Martin's lap Danny snatched it up and tucked it in a pocket, removing the temptation. Martin's breathing came out in labored gasps. "I'm so screwed," he decided, turning to the window.

"Did you take any of these pills, Martin?" Danny asked.

"Maybe now I could get that job selling shoes," Martin suggested.

"Damn it, did you take any of these pills?" demanded Danny

Martin turned back in Danny's direction. "No. I couldn't get rid of them but I couldn't take them either," his voice quiet again.

"Good, that's good," murmured Danny, "we can fix this."

Martin's bitter laughter returned. "I'm a drug addict who stole from a medical facility. My career in the FBI is over." Eyeing Danny he insisted, "I don't want you to loose your job because they find out you tried to cover for me."

"There won't be anything for them to find out," argued Danny. "I just need you to trust me."

"Of course I trust you," said Martin. In fact, right now he trusted Danny more than he trusted himself.

"Good, then give me your keys and switch seats with me," asserted Danny. He hopped out of the truck and moved around to the driver side. He started it up pretending he didn't notice the defeated look in Martin's eyes. It didn't matter. What ever happened, from here on out he was going to stick to Martin's side like glue and help him get through it all.

The windows were fogging up and the truck cab became increasingly cold. Martin didn't adjust the heat or turn on the defroster because Danny had the keys. He'd taken them into the clinic with him seven; no make that eight minutes ago.

"We can fix this." That's what Danny said before they began the silent drive to the Urgent Care clinic. But Martin, for the life of him, couldn't figure out how Danny planned to explain away those pills. "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Doctor," he imagined Danny saying, "but my partner, the drug addict, swiped some of your pain meds this morning when no one noticed. At least I managed to get them away from him before he ingested half the bottle. So, no harm, no foul, right?" Who knows, with Danny's charm he might even pull it off.

When they'd left, he'd recognized a familiar look on his friend's face. The 'Danny had a plan and was going to make it work come hell or high water' face. Danny hadn't opened his mouth once during the ride over apparently too busy working out the details of his scheme to waste breath on Martin.

Martin hadn't talked either. He'd been afraid he'd start begging Danny to give him the pills back the minute he opened his mouth. His mind came up with a dozen arguments for why he needed the drugs. He repeatedly found his eyes drifting to the coat pocket hiding the pill container, all the while wondering if there was some way to slip the pills out of that pocket without Danny noticing.

When Danny slowed to park in front of the clinic, Panic overwhelmed Martin with the realization he was about to lose his only source of meds. That was easily fixed: deliver two hard blows to Danny's head, grab the pills while he was still stunned, shove him out the door, claim the driver's seat and take off with the drugs before Danny could stop him. The images were so intense it took Martin several seconds to realize he hadn't attacked Danny. Danny, in fact, got out of the truck and told Martin he'd be right back; just hold on a little longer.

After the door closed he started trembling uncontrollably, shocked at the path his mind travelled, at the person he'd become. It took five minutes for the shakes to ease and his mind to rally into some semblance of order. Even now, as Martin wondered when he'd lost all control of his thoughts and actions, a seductive voice whispered that a couple pills could make all the pain and confusion go away. Martin hopped out of the truck and began pacing. He turned north, but forced himself to stop when he realized where he was heading. He couldn't go down those dark alleys hunting for a fix like some street junkie, as much as he might want to.

Danny asked Martin to trust him; asked him to hold on a little longer. He couldn't walk away now. He had to find a way to ride this out. Martin turned back to his truck. Setting both hands on the still warm hood, he tried to take some deep, cleansing breaths. As another minute passed Martin found it was getting harder to breathe. The earlier tremors returned to shake his already weak limbs. Struggling to hold himself together Martin pled, "Hurry up, Danny."

"I'm right here, Martin." Martin jumped a bit when Danny caught him unaware for the second time in less than an hour. Looking up, Martin read concern in every line and shadow of Danny's face. A swell of self-loathing turned Martin's stomach. He'd fantasizing about beating Danny's face in, and very nearly taken off in search of a fix. He didn't deserve Danny's worry; not even his pity.

"I almost attacked you," Martin confessed. Danny opened his mouth to respond but Martin rushed on, "when you were getting out of the truck; taking the pills back. I wanted to stop you so bad."

"But you didn't," countered Danny, "and even if you had, that's not half as bad as some of the stupid things I did to get a drink. Like letting a friend get fired over a six pack I stole." Danny leaned over and nudged Martin, letting a sly smile slip across his face. "Or sleeping with 'Anita the Hun' for three weeks just so I could get the key to her very well stocked liquor cabinet."

Martin only half heard Danny's own confessions. He was still stuck on Danny's grin and the realization that, despite his admission that he'd been ready to throw away their friendship for a handful of pills, Danny didn't hate him. The relief was so profound he didn't notice the tremors in his arms and legs migrate to shake his whole body.

"It's pretty cold out here. Let's get you back inside the truck." Danny's voice suddenly sounded so far away. Strange; because Martin could feel Danny's warm, guiding hand on his back.

"Right," Martin mumbled. Was it the cold making him shake? It didn't matter. Trust Danny. He just had to trust Danny.

"Martin! Don't do this. Come on, talk to me, man." The pleading voice penetrated the fog of Martin's mind. He realized he was buckled into the passenger seat of the truck though he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there, nor could he remember why his knee hurt.

"Did I trip?" Martin could hear a bit of slur in his own voice.

"No, man. You just scared the crap out of me by passing out on the sidewalk." Danny finally came back into focus; a weak grin plastered on a worried face. "I almost call the paramedics."

Martin tried to force himself into awareness. "I'm good; you don't have to call anyone."

"Maybe," conceded Danny as his tone became more serious, "but I need you to level with me. When did you last take the drugs?"

Martin flinched beneath the question. It could only mean Danny didn't believe him anymore. "I told you I didn't take any!" Martin tried to push Danny away furious at his partner's perceived betrayal.

Danny grabbed the flailing wrists, pinning them down. "No, Martin. Listen to me. I know you didn't take the clinic meds. I meant your pills. When did you finish off the last of your prescription pain killers?"

As quick as it had come, the rage evaporated, leaving Martin oddly numb as he searched for an answer to Danny's question. "I finished them off sometime after work yesterday." Martin vividly recalled downing the last four pills, knowing they wouldn't be near enough to ease his craving.

"Okay, if the drugs aren't causing you to pass out maybe it's something a little more basic. When did you last eat?" Danny recalled numberous skipped meals during the height of his addiction. Sometimes because he craved the liquor more than food, other times because hangovers made eating a gesture in futility.

"I had a bottle of water around lunch," offered Martin.

"Martin, a bottle of water is not eating," countered Danny. "What about yesterday, you must have eaten then, right?"

"I tried," came Martin's tired reply, "but I couldn't keep anything down yesterday." When he saw the answer disappointed Danny, he tried, "I ate some applesauce the day before."

"Great, Martin, one cup of applesauce over the course of three days, no wonder you're passing out in the street." Seeing Martin's slumped posture, Danny tried to lighten his tone. "I guess feeding you is our top priority." Danny started up the truck again and headed to the nearest gas station. He topped off the gas tank and then went inside to look for food. He bought water, clear soda and crackers in case the nausea became a problem again and also grabbed half-a-dozen nutrition bars and three bottles of Gatorade. The two apples and banana sitting in a bowl at the checkout counter rounded out his purchases. Handing the bag to Martin back in the truck, he wasn't surprised to see his friend open the crackers and soda first.

The vehicle's interior clock glowed 9:34 PM. Danny knew there was no way Martin would make it through a full day of work tomorrow. Pulling out his cell phone he hit number three on his speed dial.

"Malone," barked a familiar voice.

"Jack, it's Danny." Martin froze beside him but Danny pressed on. "I'm calling about Martin, he's having a real bad reaction to some medication his Doctor prescribed. I don't think he's going to be in any condition to work tomorrow." As if on cue Martin wrenched the door open and leaned out, emptying his stomach of the soda and crackers he'd only just swallowed. When dry heaves followed, Danny put the cell aside with a, "Hang on, Jack." He retrieved the water bottle with one hand while rubbing Martin's back with the other. "Just ride it out, Martin," he advised. "It will be over soon." As predicted the dry heaves only lasted a minute more. When Martin sat back against the seat, Danny opened the bottle saying, "Why don't we try water this time and see if that stays down any better."

"Danny," Martin pleaded, his eyes flicking to the cell. It was obvious he didn't want Jack to know anything yet. Which was fine, because Danny wasn't about to out someone else's addiction over the phone.

"Danny," came a muffled shout. "Danny, is Martin alright?"

"Sorry about that, Jack," said Danny once he'd retrieved the phone. "Martin felt the need to 'toss his cookies' out the truck door." Danny tried to make his tone joking but he wasn't sure if Jack bought it.

"If Martin's as bad off as he sounds, maybe you should take him to a doctor." Jack's overprotective streak was clearly showing.

"We just left the clinic," assured Danny, omitting the fact that Martin hadn't seen a doctor while there. "Right now, he just needs to rest and keep pushing liquids so his body can clear the garbage out." Please, believe me. Please don't ask any more questions. Danny silently prayed.

"Alright, tell Martin I don't want to see his face anywhere near the office until Monday," decreed Jack. "And make sure he gets home in one piece."

Danny smiled knowing that would give he and Martin the whole weekend to work things out. "Thanks, Jack. I've got it covered. See you in the morning." Ending the call he told Martin, "You're off until Monday."

"How'd you explain the pills to the clinic?" Martin demanded. Hearing Jack's voice brutally brought home how precariousness of his situation. He couldn't go any longer without knowing how his theft had been dealt with. Danny was telling too many lies, taking too many risks trying to protect him. Martin didn't see how Danny could think he was worth it.

"We got lucky," conceded Danny, not the least bit thrown by the sudden topic change. "They hadn't gotten around to taking inventory yet. I told the nurse that the bottle somehow got mixed up in our missing person's file and I returned them. As far as the clinic's paperwork is concerned the pills never left the premises." Danny didn't add he had a minor panic attack when the nurse opened the bottle to verify the pill type and count were correct. He'd wanted to believe Martin had been honest about not consuming the pills, but it wasn't wise to take the word of an addict in withdrawal. In the silence, Danny decided now was as good a time as any to broach a new topic. "I've got a friend over at the Phoenix Center that owes me a favor. She should be able to get you in for an evaluation, maybe even as early as tomorrow."

"Call her," consented Martin aware that he needed more than just Danny's help. The Phoenix Center had a solid reputation among drug rehab facilities. Martin saw his answer bring Danny's first honest grin of the evening but Martin failed to respond in kind. Despite how hopeful Danny became, Martin didn't think anything would get him his life back. "I should probably turn in my resignation on Monday."

"What?" demanded Danny clearly shocked.

"We both know I've been nothing but a liability these last couple months," said Martin.

"Admittedly, the past few months haven't been your best but that doesn't mean you should quit. Now is not the time to be making career decisions. Let me set up the evaluation, so you can find out what level of treatment they're going to want to put you through. If you need to, you can always request some extended personal time."

Martin was shaking his head. Can't Danny see how impossible my situation is?

"Just wait for the evaluation," cajoled Danny, "You'll have plenty of time to make choices once we have a better idea of how things stand."

Something in Danny's plea had Martin nodding his head. He didn't really think the evaluation would make any difference, but if Danny needed him to wait he would. After all, he'd trusted Danny this far.

"Great," said Danny, "Now let's get moving. I promised Jack I'd get you home in one piece."

Jack didn't usually visit the apartments of his team members when they called in sick. He tried to tell himself the Walzak files were due, but that was just an excuse. He just couldn't seem to stop worrying about his people. He was probably overcompensating for the loss of his family. When it had been decided that Maria would have full custody, Jack turned all of his focus on his job and the team. Then Vivian got sick and Martin and Danny were ambushed. Danny might not have been hurt bad, but his behavior for weeks after the shooting had been so reckless as to border on suicidal. Jack very publicly call him on it, threatening his job, before Danny settled back to his normal, trustworthy, if still somewhat cocky self. Then just when he'd started to feel good about having both Vivian and Martin back in the field, his Dad died. He knew the two had nothing to do with each other, but that didn't stop his instincts from screaming that he needed to keep close the few people he still had left in his life. Though, he really could have done without the big hug from Danny, even if the fruit basket was a nice thought.

Jack took a quick glance at his watch as he neared Martin's door. It was early but Martin was an early riser, and if he'd slept late, well, at least Jack had brought bagels and juice for breakfast. He knocked on the door and was pleased to hear an almost immediate response.

"You should have taken the keys with you when you . . ." Martin opened the door and paused. "Jack?"

Jack smiled at the befuddled look on Martin's face. "I take it, you were expecting someone else," assumed Jack.

"Danny said he'd bring breakfast back," said Martin.

"Then I guess we'll have extra's," said Jack as he lifted the bag of 'Bobby's Bagels'. When Martin just stood in the doorway, confused, Jack prompted, "Are you going to invite me in?"

"Of course." Martin stepped back to grant Jack entrance. "Come on in." As Jack took his bag to the small table in the kitchen, Martin tried to figure out what brought his boss here. Sure, Jack had been to his apartment before. He'd visited twice during Martin's recent convalescence, but Martin wasn't recovering from work related gunshot wounds this time. Deciding Jack's appearance must have something to do with work, Martin moved over to his computer. "I finished up the Santini report. I was going to fax it to you, but I can print it up instead," offered Martin.

"I was actually hoping to find out where your Walzek paperwork was, but I'll take Santini too," informed Jack. Once he had the bagels and juice set out, Jack paused to take a good look at his agent, and he didn't like what he saw. Martin looked even paler than when he'd first returned to work after the shooting. He had prominent, dark circles under his eyes indicating a substantial lack of sleep. The usual confidence with which he moved was missing, leaving Martin's motions tentative at best. Even the too loose sweat pants and the plain gray t-shirt, through which Jack could count several of Martin's ribs, broadcast the fragile state of Martin's health. "You haven't put much weight back on," Jack observed bluntly.

Martin looked down self-consciously. "My doctor said I should expect some digestive problems after an injury like mine." Though Martin wasn't sure how much of his recent nausea could be blamed on the shooting injury and how much came from the abuse of too many painkillers or even the added stress of withdrawal that detox brought. It was hard not to fidget beneath Jack's searching gaze. Martin fervently willed his printer to work faster.

"I think your computer can handle printing up the files without you hovering over it," teased Jack. "Sit. Eat." Martin hesitantly joined Jack at the table selecting a wheat bagel from those offered. Satisfied he'd done what he could to help Martin address his weight issue, Jack moved on. "So when did you have time to finish the Santini report?"

Martin was relieved to hear the topic move away from his personal problems. "I did it early this morning when I couldn't fall back to sleep." Martin stumbled to the living room around four-thirty am to find Danny at the computer putting the finishing touches on his own paperwork. With a bit of coaxing, Danny convinced him to consume an apple, nutrition bar and a bottle of Gatorade. Counting the banana and water he'd stomached the night before, it was his second meal in three days. As he ate Danny talked about the basic 12-step program Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous followed. Several of the steps sounded pretty easy to Martin, but others sounded dauntingly unpleasant. Danny spoke candidly about his own experiences with the program and how it had helped him get sober and stay sober. The self-deprecating humor that showed as he spoke of his own stalls and stutters on the road to sobriety only increased the respect Martin held for his friend. Martin wasn't sure he could face his addiction with the same courage Danny showed.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" asked Jack doubtfully.

Martin started. He'd been so lost in his memories he momentarily forgot he wasn't alone. Pay attention! He scolded himself. Jack would certainly notice if his mind kept taking side trips to La La Land. "I got almost four straight hours," Martin assured.

"That's not much," countered Jack.

"It was the best night of sleep I've had in weeks." Crap! I did not just say that out loud, denied Martin.

Jack's now worried look assured he had. "Have you talked to Lisa Harris about your problems sleeping?"

"No." Martin stood as he scrambled for some plausible excuse not to. Because if Jack ordered him to see Dr. Harris and he had to disclose his addiction it would become part of his Bureau record and then . . .

"For crying out loud, you're shaking like a leaf." Jack also stood, trying to direct Martin back to his chair. "What the hell is going on with you, Martin?" Jack demanded in exasperation.

Martin was granted a reprieve when Jack's attention was drawn to the opening front door.

"Good news, Martin," announced Danny as he bumped the door open while juggling several sacks of groceries and a medium duffle bag, "I got you a ten-thirty appointment," he turned sideways to jiggle Martin's key loose, "at Phoenix Center with a Dr. Elizabeth Zimmer this morning."

Martin probably could have warned Danny before he said too much, but part of Martin knew he deserved this. He watched as Jack absorbed Danny's words. It took only a second for the concerned friend to be replaced by the trained investigator. Jack's eyes scanned the apartment the same way they'd examined hundreds of crime scenes before. The most obvious signs in the room didn't indicate all that much. The pile of blankets and discarded tie on the couch only told where Danny slept. The crumpled wrappers and empty Gatorade bottles simply spoke of an unusual midnight snack.

Far more telling was the tiny sobriety pin on the end table. Danny had pulled it out of his wallet a couple hours ago to show Martin. "9 years, 2 months and 21 days," he'd said quietly, "it might sound impressive but the only reason I got this far was by taking it one day at a time. Every morning I wake up and make the decision not to drink that day. Don't think about never having another painkiller; just decide you're not going to have any painkillers today. You did it yesterday and you can do it today." It had been almost painful to listen to the certainty in Danny's voice. Martin didn't feel he'd done anything to warrant the faith Danny was giving him. Still, if Danny believed he could do it maybe . . . Martin sought Danny's eyes past Jack's shoulder. His friend was looking guilty and apologetic, clearly aware he'd let the cat out of the bag.

Martin tried to send him a reassuring look, but Jack's gaze was now fixed on the open bathroom and its suspiciously empty medicine cabinet where Danny had confiscated everything stronger than toothpaste. As if Danny's reference to Phoenix Center combined with Martin's obvious sweating, shakes and distraction weren't enough for Jack to build a profile of an addict.

"You're detoxing," stated Jack in quiet inevitability. Martin didn't say anything, just closed his eyes and accepted that life, as he knew it, was over. Several thumps and a thud brought Martin's eyes back to Danny, who dumped his bags and moved forward apparently to try to talk Jack out of his obvious conclusions. Jack went on the offensive before he ever got a chance. "You lied to me!" he accused.

The intensity of Jack's rage surprised. "I didn't lie," he explained, "I just omitted a few details."

"Don't try to play me, Danny," warned Jack. "'A real bad reaction to some medication his Doctor prescribed,'" he quoted. "You made a deliberate statement with intent to deceive. That's lying!"

"Maybe," conceded Danny unwilling to challenge Jack on that particular point, "but I had other priorities at the time."

"My priority," declared Jack, "is keeping my team safe. How the hell am I supposed to do that if I don't know what condition my people are in?" A small voice is Jack's head whispered, this is Vivian's collapse all over again.

Something about Jack's tone got Danny's back up. "This wasn't about you or your priorities, Jack. It was about helping Martin get sober." The two men were now toe-to-toe, leaving Martin in the background to watch in growing sickness.

"How long have you known?" demanded Jack. "How long have you been hiding this?" Jack knew the questions were cruel even before Danny reared back like he'd been sucker-punched. At the same time he felt compelled to ask. As much as he wanted to believe Danny would never cover something of this magnitude for long, just yesterday he'd believed the idea of Martin becoming addicted to anything more dangerous than Twinkies absurd. He needed Danny to deny his accusations, needed to know he hadn't somehow missed seeing Martin disintegrate before his eyes.

"Stop it! Please stop," Martin begged in a broken voice. "Danny didn't know anything until last night. I screwed up. I'm the one you should be yelling at." The small tirade seemed to eat up the last of Martin's reserves. He fell back to his seat burying his face in his trembling hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he apologized not even sure who he was apologizing to.

Danny took in Martin's hopeless posture and knew exactly where it would lead. "Don't do it, Martin. You promised no big decisions until after the evaluation." He knelt down beside his friend trying to get Martin to look at him.

"Right," whispered Martin, "like Jack's going to want a drug addict on his team.

Jack was stunned by the bitterness of Martin's tone. Then he realized what Martin was implying. He'd been so focused on the threat of losing Martin to drug addiction that it had never occurred to him that he could lose Martin another way. "Wait a minute. Don't start putting words in my mouth," said Jack gruffly. He knew he needed to start working the problem or he'd never get Martin back. "My only issues with our current situation are: 1. I wasn't aware of it. And 2. You're not yet in treatment. The first issue has already been dealt with and the second can be handled this morning if I heard Danny right. As to whether I want an addict on my team, I seem to have managed just fine with Danny on my team for the past several years, what's one more?" Jack knew he'd said the right thing when Danny smiled up at him. "I can even get the ball rolling with HR to cover you treatment costs."

"No," Martin shook his head. "I'm going to be paying for treatment out of pocket. I can't let this get on my bureau record."

"Martin, you're talking about a butt-load of money," said Danny. "You can handle the hit to your career this might cause without going broke."

"If this were about only my career . . ."

"You're worried about someone using your addiction in a political gambit against your father," guessed Jack. Martin nodded. He could accept the consequences of his actions. But he wasn't willing to let others suffer for them, especially his father. "All right," said Jack. "We'll figure something out, but no more hiding your problems from Danny and me." When Martin nodded again in acceptance, Jack sighed with relief. Maybe he wouldn't lose Martin after all.

Martin was certain he looked like a slob. Next to him Danny was dressed for work, looking as stylish as always even with his messy hair. Martin on the other hand was wearing jeans and a T-shirt because he had decided it would be silly to dress up just to sign in to drug rehab. He'd never expected to feel so vulnerable without his typical suit and tie. Then again maybe those usual trappings, his suit and tie even his guns and badge, were part of what made it so easy to pretend that nothing was wrong. After all, he couldn't be an effective agent and a drug addict at the same time, right?

Martin tried to focus on the paperwork in his hands. He checked off little boxes easily enough even if the questions were a bit embarrassing. He'd been pleased to note only a small number of yeses were checked. The next page of address and contact information should have been just as easy but small tremors in his hand were making a mess of his normally neat script. Martin flexed his hand, shook it a bit and then tried to write again. He only wrote three letters before the tremors started again, rendering his handwriting illegible.

"Relax," soothed Danny, "I've got it." He took the paper and pencil to safeguard them from Martin's mounting frustrations. Danny quickly filled in what he knew leaving the insurance section blank since Martin intended to pay upfront. "Who do you want me to put down as your emergency contact?"

Martin's standard reply to such a question, putting his parents down, was unthinkable. He was used to his father's disapproval, but he really hated the thought of seeing disappointment in his mother's eyes. Realistically, Jack and Danny were the only options and Martin felt he'd already put Jack in a bad position by asking him to withhold Martin's addiction from their superiors. "Would you mind being my contact?" Martin asked hesitantly.

Danny smiled. "It would be my pleasure, Brother." He lifted his fist, palm down and knuckles out. Martin copied the gesture moving his fist to knock Danny's, sealing the deal.

"Fitzgerald," a stout, 50 something Hispanic nurse approached. "When you're done with those forms we need a urine sample." She dropped a small plastic container in Danny's lap.

Martin took the plastic from Danny's hand and wondered how anyone looking at the two of them could assume Danny was the one here for treatment. "Actually, I'm Fitzgerald," he clarified.

"Really?" she asked in a clipped, slightly accented tone. "If you're Fitzgerald then why aren't you filling out Fitzgerald's paperwork?" From the expression on her face it looked like Martin had already managed to violate some cardinal rule.

"His hands were shaking," defended Danny.

"So are most of the other addicts' but those who want to get clean somehow manage to fill out their paperwork." The nurse turned her dark eyes toward Martin. "Make sure you fill the container at least half way," she instructed before walking away.

"Don't mind Rosa," said a tall, pony-tailed brunette. "She's always a bit standoffish with the new patients."

"Rachel," greeted Danny with a hug, "thank you so much for getting us in. I owe you big time. Martin, this is my friend, Rachel."

Martin stood to meet yet another person he'd become indebted to. "It's a pleasure," he stated with an offered hand. "Are you sure I didn't do something to tick her off?"

Rachel appraised Martin for several seconds and then decided to try to give an honest explanation. "Obviously no one wants to enter rehab. The people who enroll in our program are here because their lives are out of control; because they've let their addictions dictate who and what they are."

Martin forced himself to hold eye contact; not an easy task when listening to a complete stranger itemize his weaknesses. He knew, of course, she was speaking of addicts in general but he doubted there was any more fitting description of his current state than 'out of control'.

"But our biggest problem is that many of the people who walk through these doors still don't believe they're addicts. They come here because of court orders, family ultimatums; maybe they were required to, to keep their jobs. And for us it's just about impossible to help them because as far as they are concerned we're just some test they have to pass before they can get back to their lives and their drugs. So when new patients check in we tend to size them up; look for the ones that really want to be here so we can give them as much support as possible. Little things like do they check themselves in, are they polite or talking trash, do they volunteer information, tell us a lot about a person's prospects."

"A while back, an intern of ours did a study for one of his graduate courses. He kept track of who filled out their own registration paperwork and who didn't and then checked on them periodically after their release. He found that those who filled out there own paperwork were eight times more likely to be clean after three months and thirteen times more likely to still be drug free after six months." Rachel shrugged her shoulders. "With numbers like that it made sense to start looking at who filled out their registration forms."

Without a word Martin accepted the forms back from Danny, determined to finish them and to hell with how sloppy they might be.

"This was my fault," explained Danny indicating the forms. "He didn't ask. I just took them when I saw his hands were shaking."

Rachel smiled again. "Relax, Danny. Martin's not going to get into trouble just because you filled in a couple of lines."

"Not even with Rosa?" he asked.

"I'll talk to Rosa," she assured.

"You should probably get to work soon," suggested Martin. "I can handle this and there's no need to leave Jack short two agents." Danny looked uncertain but Martin pressed on. "Come on, man, what are you going to do here, help me fill my sample container?" He waved the plastic cup teasingly. "I've got my cell phone. I'll call you if I need anything." Martin hoped he was being convincing. It wasn't fair to have Danny constantly shift his normal activities just to suit Martin's current neediness.

"You'd better," warned Danny. "I want to be kept up to date with everything that's going on. Then I'll come pick you up when you're all done here." Danny stood and slipped his coat back on. "You're sure?" he asked one more time.

"I'm good. Get out of here," assured Martin even as he wished he felt half as confident as he sounded.

Danny caught another quick hug from Rachel, slipping a quiet, "Take care of him," in her ear. It was a plea she'd heard many variations of since coming to work here four years ago. She just smiled in reply, having learned better than to offer promises or guarantees.

Danny was almost to the door when Martin called out to him, "Danny," his partner turned mid-stride. "I . . ." Martin stalled on the right words. "Thanks . . . for everything." Thanks for taking the drugs but not turning me in; talking me through the dry heaves and the night sweats and the cravings; especially for defending me from Jack's wrath and Rosa's distain. Thanks for the dozen acts of friendship given over the last fourteen hours that combined to, if not save my life, at least give me a fighting chance.

Danny smiled, understanding what was left unsaid. He pointed at his partner. "Call me, later," he ordered and headed out the door.