|Drache-Königin (edincoat) wrote in makrothumia,|
@ 2009-01-11 04:09:00
There is this crunchy monster deep in his spinal column, and it yells at him whenever he does something stupid. It first appeared when he took up drinking, downing bottle after bottle of the hard stuff, and hasn't gone away even though sobriety (the bitch) has been around for almost ten years now.
So there is the monster, with a high pitched voice, and it stabs those notes right into his brain whenever he deserves it. Some people have all the luck, with a bug or a ghost or a homicidal dead cousin who killed himself with a shotgun last Christmas and has taken up haunting slightly insane family members.
Martin growls at him a little, pokes him in the shoulder to make a point during some tangent where he once again expounds on the necessity to keep him in the loop, and all he can hear is the monster shrieking "stupidstupidohsostupid" into his brain.
"Damnit Danny," Martin demands, shoving him in the shoulder so he has to take a step back. "Are you even listening to me?"
He contemplates saying no just to spite him, but the shrieking tells him that it would be even more stupid if he didn't play it normal, so he just smiles a little and tilts his head. "Of course."
Martin's disbelieving look doesn't bode well, but it gets him a pass.
He is late in leaving work, dawdling with a report so that he is certain he's the last in the office, and he returns home on automatic. The entire journey is a blur of motion and standing still, waiting for the subway to come into the station and weaving out of the hub to reach clear air located three streets away from his flat.
He trudges up the stairs, crawls into the lift, and crawls out again. Keeps his head down to mind the headache, and then stops in front of his door, staring blankly at the pair of shoes that aren't his and are on feet that aren't his, which are attached to a Martin that isn't his.
Martin tilts his head, a mockery of his own action earlier in the day, and narrows his eyes. "You're lucky you didn't get mugged on your way here."
The voice chatters at him, warning him to notbestupidplease because this is getting oldoldold, and he raises his shoulders in a quasi-shrug. "I'm not so sure I didn't."
Keys in his hand jangle when he singles one out and inserts it into the lock, and he twists them around as he opens the door to his flat then pulls them free. "Why do you care, Fitz?"
Martin raises his eyebrows, looks slightly bewildered by the question, then opens his mouth to reply.
He shuts the door in his face, and can barely hear the click of the lock over the voice as it increases in volume. Does not, in fact, hear Martin’s footsteps as he leaves the hallway, and for that he is mildly grateful.
Martin isn’t speaking to him, and being very obvious about it.
Not by pointed glares and then turning away, never something so clichéd and childish. No, he just stares past Danny like there isn’t a human in his line of sight when he sits across from him. He doesn’t bother making sure to not look where he might be, he just goes about his business as usual and ignores his partner with a cold efficiency that makes Danny wonder if this was a tactic he learnt from his father or his mother.
He thinks that he probably got it from both.
So. Martin is ignoring Danny and doing a damn good job of it. Everyone notices because normally they’re at least arguing, but all he can do is grin at them like there isn’t a thing wrong with the world and this change to both of their demeanours isn’t a change at all, just an improvement.
Viviane doesn’t buy it, and tells him so in the break room. He brushes her off with a shrug and grin, and flees.
Sam doesn’t either, and he sees her talking to Martin in a hushed tone to which the younger man seems to not be really responding to, probably because it concerns Danny. When she turns to look at him, looks vaguely hopeful that she’ll get answers at least out of him, he gives his best shrug and sits down.
Jack just glances from one to the other once in a while, and heaves a longsuffering sigh.
Boss was always the most emo out of all of them.
He finally corners Martin in the men’s room, and feels the need to be as nasty as he can. After all, those walls aren’t going to break themselves.
“So what are you doing here?”
Martin looks up at him with a dull expression, like saying “oh, so there was something in front of me, who would have thought?”, and he gets a paper towel to dry his hands.
“Not talking to you.”
This makes him even more angry if at all possible, and he grits his teeth. “Why the hell not?”
Special Agent Fitzgerald blinks slowly, then grins a little, moving over to the door. “Why do you think?”
As he formulates a reply, Martin leaves the room, and snaps the door shut behind him. Right. In. His. Face. It makes him stop dead, shake a little, then lean against the wall and try to not start laughing.
Sometimes he really hates that man.