*

"Hey, Martin?"

Martin turned, the 'I am caring and concerned' frown creasing his forehead. "Yeah?"

"Remember before, when you asked if I wanted to get a drink?" She swallowed. "Well, I could really use a drink."

His frown turned deeper, darker. Great, now he probably thinks I'm an alcoholic, Sam thought. But he just smiled sadly. "It's a shame to see a pretty girl drink alone," he said, and tilted his head toward the exit. "Come on."

Almost collapsing with relief, Sam crossed the office and fell in step beside him. "Where should we go?" Though she'd been in New York far longer than he had and probably should've been making the suggestions.

"Well, there's Fern's," he said - a bit predictably.

Sam shook her head. "Nowhere that close. Please."

"Oh. Okay." He nodded again, thinking. "I know." Turning his head, he flashed her a grin. "There's a place in Danny's neighborhood; it's got an atmosphere like a speakeasy from a noir film or something. It's just what you need after a day like today."

"Great." Sam smiled back. "Sounds really good."

They shared a comfortable silence in the elevator. Sam was grateful to Martin for not trying to keep up a conversation - she had no interest in maintaining a civil demeanor just now.

The instant the elevator spit them out on the ground floor, Martin had his cell phone out. Sam frowned. "Who are you calling?"

"Danny." He looked at her as though that should've been perfectly obviously.

A flicker of confusion ran through her. "Why?"

"You had a shitty day. You need your friends around, right?"

Sam blinked. Martin was watching her, waiting. She shrugged. "Right."

His grin this time was almost blinding. "Great." He finished dialing the number. She could tell the instant Danny picked up, and she wasn't sure what to make of the abrupt relaxing of Martin's stance. "Hey, it's me," he said.

Taking half a step away from Martin, Sam watched the call, cataloging impressions. That's what she was trained to do, wasn't it?

"You almost done with your mystery errands?...Come to the Chandler when you're done...Yeah, I'm heading over there now. With Sam...What? No, Danny." Martin's features set, and he turned slightly away from Sam, lowering his voice. "Don't be like that....Yeah, well, that's where we'll be. Bye." He ended the call and tucked his phone away, eyes still narrowed.

"He's not coming?" Sam tried not to sound hopeful.

Sighing, Martin shook his head and headed toward the subway. "Hard to tell."

Sam wavered between trying to forget all about the events of the day and wanting to spill everything to Martin - the mindless terror that had caused her to squeeze the trigger in the park; Jack's curt dismissal of her and her sense throughout the day that he'd been giving her the brush-off professionally as well as personally; the dread that lingering memories of her own shooting would make her a liability to the team. Martin, thank God, didn't seem the least bit interested in pushing her one way or the other, simply standing quietly next to her on the crowded subway car.

The entrance to the Chandler wasn't marked, and you had to go down four steps to get to it. "How did you find this place?"

"Danny did. It's one of his favorite hang-outs."

"He doesn't even drink," she blurted before stopping to think that Martin might not know that. Although, after the call Martin had made to Danny, she was starting to think the two men were closer than she'd realized.

"But he's a sucker for ambiance." Martin grinned and held the door for her.

"Oh, my God," she said softly as her eyes adjusted to the bar's dim interior. When Martin made the speakeasy comment, she'd assumed he was exaggerating, but now she realized he'd understated the case. If Nick and Nora Charles themselves had walked across the room at this moment, she wouldn't have been surprised. The décor wasn't that different from most bars - a little less illumination, maybe, darker wood - but something in the air made her think that all manner of shady dealings were transpiring in the corners. "This is great."

Martin nodded, pleased with himself. "The perfect place to nurse your grudges, drown your sorrows, or say, 'Screw it all.'"

"That sounds like a great idea."

Martin led the way to the bar, where a jovial Sidney Greenstreet type concocted drinks with a magician's skill. He smiled when he saw Martin. "Evening, Martin."

"Hey, Jess." Martin leaned against the bar.

"Where's Danny?"

One of Martin's shoulders twitched in an almost-shrug that would've done Humphrey Bogart proud. "No idea. Sam, this is Jess, the owner. Jess, this is Samantha Spade, a coworker of Danny's and mine."

Jess's eyes widened. Sam's narrowed. "No kidding?" Jess asked. "Sam Spade?"

She sighed deeply. "Yeah. That's me."

Jess was beaming. "That's great. What can I get you, Sam Spade?"

"Vodka tonic, please."

"Coming right up," Jess said. He looked at Martin. "Your usual?"

Martin nodded. Jess reached under the bar and pulled out three glasses.

"Don't bother with Danny's," Martin said. "I don't think he's coming tonight."

"You sure about that?"

Martin spun fast on his heel, but not so fast that Sam didn't catch the grin that suffused his face at the sound of Danny's voice. "You made it."

Danny shrugged. "I did everything I needed to. And then I realized I'd been an ass." He winked at Sam over Martin's shoulder. "Hey, Sam."

"Hi, Danny."

Picking up his drink, Martin pointed to a side booth. "Go sit down, ass."

Danny quirked an eyebrow. "A little feisty tonight, Fitzie. It works for you."

Martin rolled his eyes at Sam. She couldn't explain why, but something about the easy play between the two men was making her feel better already. Still, she wasn't about to let Martin off the hook. "Why'd you have to tell the bartender my full name? You know I hate that."

Behind her, Danny snickered. "You told Jess?"

"I'm sorry, Sam. But you made the man's entire month."

"His month?" Danny snorted. "He'll tell his grandchildren about the day he met an FBI agent named Sam Spade."

Martin slid into the booth and Sam started in after him. Danny cleared his throat. She paused and turned back. "What?"

Danny was a man with little concept of personal space. Still, the hug was unexpected. Sam fought back tears, trying not to feel pathetically grateful for the strong arms enfolding her. When she sniffled against Danny's shoulder, he chuckled and released her. "No snot on the jacket, please."

Sam laughed wetly and sat beside Martin. Danny squeezed in on her other side.

Martin leaned around her to stare at Danny. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I am forming a solid wall of human comfort for a friend."

Martin snorted. "Form it from the other side, would you? I'm squished."

Danny shook his head sadly, but he stood and moved to the other side of the table. "The man has no sense of chivalry."

Sam sensed a scuffle of feet under the table, and the super-heated glance that passed between Danny and Martin was the perfect capper to her day. All the good ones are taken or gay, she thought.

"So," Danny said, wrapping his hands around his glass, "are we talking about it or not talking about it?"

"Danny!" Martin admonished him.

Danny shrugged. "I'm fine either way. I just need to know where the conversation is or isn't going."

Sam sighed. She should've known Danny wouldn't let her slide like Martin had. The thing was, she hadn't decided yet if she wanted to talk about it or not. She took a drink, feeling the carbonation bubbling around in her mouth. "Not, I guess," she said finally. "Not now, anyway."

Danny nodded easily. "Okay." He sipped his own drink, uncharacteristically comfortable with the ensuing silence.

Sam squinted at his glass. "Is there a maraschino cherry in your ginger ale?"

Martin smirked. "Isn't that the cutest thing you've ever seen?"

"Only because she's never seen your lucky socks," Danny shot back.

"You have lucky socks?"

"They're not," Martin said too quickly.

"They have shamrocks on them," Danny told her.

Sam twisted in her seat so she faced Martin head-on. "You, Martin Fitzgerald, have socks with shamrocks on them?"

"Yeah, well." Martin glared at Danny. "He neglected to mention who bought them for me."

Danny laughed. "You got nothing on me, copper." Craning his neck, he looked at something at the back of the bar. When he turned back, he was grinning wolfishly. "You guys want to play cutthroat?"

Martin deferred to Sam. She wasn't sure her ego was up for the bruising it would certainly suffer playing against these two, but watching them in that kind of competitive environment was an experience she didn't think she wanted to miss. She shrugged. "Why not?"

"Great." Danny stood. "I'll rack 'em."

As soon as he was gone, Sam turned back to Martin. "When did this start?"

His eyes went, almost involuntarily, to where Danny was leaning over the pool table. "Just after the OPR investigation."

She frowned, thinking back. "You two were ready to kill each other all that week."

"I know." He looked mildly chagrined. "That was the first time I ever had make-up sex with someone before we were actually dating." They both chuckled. Martin sobered instantly. "This is - I mean, this is okay, right? You're not going to..." There was an apology in his eyes, but the fear was real, too.

She wondered what he'd been about to say. 'You're not going to be jealous?' 'You're not going to tell on us?' FBI regulations were murkier about relationships like Danny and Martin's than about supreme lapses of good sense like her affair with Jack, but if word got out - if word, she thought with a shudder, got back to Martin's father - an unimaginable load of trouble would crash onto them. At the very least, one of them would be transferred out of the team, and that wouldn't do anyone any good. So Sam understood why Martin worried, but it hurt, a little. "Martin."

"I trust you. I do. It's just--" He looked to the pool table again. "This is one I want to keep, you know?"

She nodded. "I hope you get the chance." The chance she hadn't gotten. Shaking that train of thought loose, she stood. "Let's go."

"You ready to be humiliated, Taylor?" Martin asked as they approached the table, his arm draped companionably around Sam's shoulders.

Danny nodded gravely. "Your lack of skill is a deep humiliation to me, Fitzie." He hefted a cue to Martin.

"Where's mine?" Sam demanded.

"Pff. I know what this featherweight plays with. I wouldn't presume to choose for you."

"Ah." Sam crossed to the rack of cues and tested three or four before she found one that felt right to her. When she turned back, she caught Martin and Danny exchanging a worried glance.

"Is Sam rumored to be a good pool player, Martin?" Danny stage-whispered.

She smiled at them. "No worries, boys."

"Well - your bad day, your break," Martin said.

"Thanks." She lined up the cue ball and shot. The six slipped easily into the corner pocket. Sam straightened. "I'm taking high."

Martin and Danny leaned side-by-side against the wall, shoulders brushing. "I think I'm glad we didn't put money on this," Danny said. Martin just nodded as Sam sank the two.

Nothing went in on Sam's next shot, and as she moved away from the table, Martin pushed off from the wall. There had been no discussion of who would go next; it was clearly just the way they did things. As Martin circled the table, considering angles, Danny cleared his throat. "Hey, Martin."

Not taking his eyes off the table, Martin said, "Yeah?" Danny just stood there, waiting. Huffing in exasperation, Martin turned. "What?"

Slowly, Danny pulled the stem of his maraschino cherry from his mouth, a perfect knot in the middle, and held it out. "Still think it's cute?" he asked sweetly.

Martin looked down at Danny's extended hand. "Holy shit," he whispered, then he scowled. "Bastard," he muttered, and Sam laughed. No way he was making this shot.

Sam leaned next to Danny against the wall, watching Martin spectacularly ruin his shot. Shaking his head in disgust, he came back to the wall. Danny laughed as they passed, patting Martin's arm sympathetically. "I hate you," Martin said, and Danny laughed harder.

"Being you is rough, isn't it?"

Martin took over Danny's place beside Sam. "We'll be here a while," he told her. He watched Danny sink the nine and call low. "Well, that's that game." He looked over at Sam. "How are you doing?"

Sam studied him, then took a minute to watch Danny, who had the look of a man about to run a table. There was no longer any prospect of the night ending with regrettable, drunken sex. At this rate - she looked at her glass, still a quarter full - there was barely a prospect of drunkenness. She hadn't said any of the things she knew she needed to about the case, and the shooting, and Jack. Still, when she turned back to Martin, she was smiling, and when she said, "I'm doing much better now," she wasn't lying.