|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 03:34:00
One something that he never really tells anyone about because it is just plain weird, is his ability to taste words. The roll of a consonant, the burst of vocalisation into the air, all forms an assault on his tongue that let him know if it’s something wrong or right that he just said.
Because--because--if the words are wrong, or hateful, or something that he shouldn’t have said, the bitter taste that attacks him makes him recoil as if struck. His senses reel, his palms sweat, and he forces himself to not plead with his eyes to take it back, say I’m sorry oh so sorry please forgive me just to make it all right again.
It is one of the reasons he talks to himself so much, for when he voices a thought or opinion, he can taste it and weigh it and if it doesn’t work, if it sours his mouth so much that he chokes a little, he knows he is incorrect and should amend his thoughts or opinions.
He never really tells anyone about this, because he doesn’t want the looks he knows he will get if he does. He doesn’t want to have anyone know why he does what he does, or why he freaks out a little after certain confrontations.
It isn’t like there are words to remove the taste, a verbose sorbet that cleans his pallet for the next mouthful that he projects into the air. Alcohol worked for a while, but he doesn’t have that anymore, and just look at how well that worked out.
And he thinks that even if there were a way to stop this without resorting to a vice and an addiction, he needs to be like this, needs this limit on his speech. It works, he works with it, and it has become something that he relies on.
There have never been more damn bad tastes that lingered for days since he met Martin, because that man just gets under his skin and prods at his organs, making him say mean things that send him to the water fountain multiple times a day just to wash his mouth out. He’s started to chew gum at home, something in a million years he’d thought he’d never resort to, just to try to rid some of the bitterness before he tries to eat something.
It is always one thing or another with that man, either him jumping in and accusing him of riding his father’s coattails through the bureau, or telling Martin off for getting addicted when all he needed to do was call him and he would have had help.
And if it isn’t that, if it isn’t him yelling and seething, it is the lies that he has been forced to utter, like giving approval for the debacle with Sam, or saying to Elena that he’s just worried about Martin, he isn’t obsessed, not by a long-shot.
He needs a warning before Martin comes into the room, so that he can say under his breath what he needs to say and taste it out. He needs to think before he opens his mouth and just spews and yells and blusters and teases without thinking beforehand.
This way that Agent Martin Fitzgerald is under his skin, this way that he ruins his composure just to get close and breathe the same air Martin breathes, share the same body heat without actually stripping of their clothing and pressing together.
This is unhealthy, that’s what it is.
Problem is, he hasn’t a clue what to do about it.
He tries out all of these different scenarios in his head, and rejects every last one of them. If he can’t talk them out, he won’t know if they work or not anyway, so why bother? And tying Martin to a chair while he paces and just explains everything will get him fired, so yeah, rejected.
But this won’t go away, no matter how much gum he chews or mouthwash he quaffs. His life flashes before his eyes whenever he considers tackling Martin and telling him to stop it stop it stop it, mostly comprised of images that include--of course, why wouldn’t they?--Martin from some instance in the last six years.
Elena walks up to him and declares that he smells like a distillery, and has he been drinking? That causes Martin’s head to snap up and look at him, a little bit shocked and a hell of a lot reproachful, and he finds himself wishing that she still sounded incomprehensible to everyone but him. Because this? Not working at all.
He assures her that he isn’t drinking on the job, and sooths her enough to go back to her desk. Martin is still looking at him, considering and wary, and he fights to not snap at him and make the foul bits on his tongue even worse.
So instead he just smiles, waves a little, and turns back to his desk.
He can still feel Martin’s eyes on him, and he knocks over the lamp before he regains his composure. Slightly shaking hands return to the keyboard, and he is quite certain that he did not just help his case one bit.
The basin of Holy Water is only partially full, a leftover from morning mass that never quite got going because the Priest who was supposed to lead the choir went to the bathroom and never came back. He stares at it, can see reflections of stained glass windows on the surface, and wonders if it will cleanse his tongue if he drinks it.
Martin comes up beside him, sees where he is looking, and frowns. Knocks him in the shoulder with his fist--which is all he ever does these days, hit him, the bastard--and tells him to come over to the confessionals, because that might have a clue or two for them to go on.
He follows obediently, not thinking about what it means that he automatically does what Martin tells him to do. He has no problem second-guessing Jack, or questioning Viviane’s orders whenever she gives them and he thinks she is wrong, so why does he just step-to whenever the younger man crooks a finger?
Must be something in the water.
Not the holy water, mind you, because he is still considering getting some and swilling it around his mouth to see if that takes care of his problem. But the regular water, the water he drinks, because it would explain a lot if Martin came to town and tainted the whole lot of it with his mere presence.
He peers into a confessional, the confessors’ side, and grins. Looks over at Martin examining the Priest’s side, and asks if he has anything he needs to get off his chest.
Martin’s response, a solemn look and the words You have no idea, was entirely unexpected.
They find Father Muldoon trussed up and locked in the trunk of a car, half-dead and bleeding from every orifice. All the man did was keep confession of a child molester, not say anything to the authorities, and when called on to testify, refuse. All he did was act as an accomplice, and the parents of one of the victims decided to have their say using a broom stick and a car antenna.
He isn’t surprised when Martin looks away, an expression of disgust hiding behind a thin veneer of indifference.
He’s sitting on a stone bench outside of the building, smack dab in the centre of the plaza under a statue of something he’s never been quite sure of, and Martin walks over, collapses beside him.
Says, “What is the reason for all of this?”
He thinks, wishes he could try some words on his tongue before answering, and grins self-deprecatingly at himself because of course he can’t do that, Martin is sitting right here and it’s not like he’s willing to tell him exactly why the man disturbs him so much.
“I think it’s for the betterment of mankind.”
“Right. Mankind” Martin scoffs, and their knees touch for just a second as he shifts on the hard stone. “How’s that working out? Because I don’t see anything resembling positive results.”
So his co-worker is having a crisis of faith in the job. He’s been here before, and wishes he could just walk away instead of talking about this. Because the bitterness hasn’t crept up his throat to settle behind his teeth, but it’s coming, he knows it is.
“Martin, not all of the people we save are going to be good guys. You should know that by now.”
He feels rather than sees the younger man’s shoulders sag, and yeah, he’s in for a dozy tonight. Something not unlike bile soaks into his tongue, and he winces from the acidity of it.
Martin hangs his head, and seems to be examining the pavement in front of them. “I guess I still have an idealistic streak.”
He decides to not talk, and just leans to the side, touching shoulders and not looking at him, not even out of the corner of his eye. Breathes and waits, and thinks that maybe this is the technique he should employ in the future when it comes to Martin Fitzgerald.
The holy water does not work. In fact, it makes it worse, and he coughs and hacks as he tries to get it all out from his mouth and down the sink.