the doctor is [not] in.

some-bloody-saint‌:

“Oh fuck off.” The venom tasted good in his mouth. Matthew began to cross the room to Marcos, Giovanni a vibrating, fiery beacon in the peripheral of his awareness (always), an anxious pit in his stomach, but belated fury sizzled around it. He positioned himself between the Exterminator and Marcos. His back felt naked.

Matthew’s fingers fumbled numbly with the clasp of his satchel. He could feel Giovanni’s eyes on him, though no retort was forthcoming; he was no doubt deliberating between embarrassing himself further and some other unknowable plot. Don’t always have a comeback, now, do you.

“Let me see it,” Matthew muttered, this time to Marcos, though the wound danced red-hot in front of his eyes. He blinked, frowned down into the contents of his kit.

“Matthew-” Marcos reached up and grabbed the man’s wrist as he tore open an alcohol wipe and raised it towards Marcos’ face. At first his grip was light, but when Giovanni shifted slightly in the background and Marcos refocused on him, his hand clenched around Matthew’s wrist and then abruptly released him. The utter disregard and disrespect Matthew exhibited was only matched in discomfort with the strangely convoluted anger now radiating off the Exterminator. Knowing he was repeating himself and already positive that it would make no difference, he whispered urgently, “Matthew please, just wait in the hall? I’ll be out in like five minutes, please-” 

The urge to grab at Matthew was nearly overpowering. But Giovanni didn’t do that; he didn’t touch Matthew first. He never did that. But how much could he say here? What could he say to diffuse this situation? Matthew’s temper was unpredictable and capricious; at least it seemed so to Giovanni.

But he must be careful to avoid appearing soft.

“If you would like to discuss some dissatisfaction you may have,” Giovanni said in a tone that was carefully enunciated, warning, “then see me privately about it. In the meantime--”

Matthew rounded on him in a sudden movement which sent medical supplies showering to the cement floor in a deafening clatter. 

"DON'T--" Matthew's hands froze, poised in the air as if in mid-reach for a strangle. “Start. Okay.”

“No, don’t you start with me.” Giovanni’s gaze flashed to Marcos’ wide eyes momentarily--they couldn’t do this here, right now, but-- “I can’t read your fucking mind, Matthew, whatever miscommunication is happening here is your fault. How many times have I--”

some-bloody-saint‌:

Matthew did not flinch outwardly, aside from a blink which seemed casual enough. He nodded at Marcos.

“I’d like to treat his head wound before I leave. Sir.”

Indeed, a stream of blood had caked over the side of Marcos’ face from a minor cut; minor, but still made by a dirty blade. It was true that Matthew wanted to treat it as soon as possible; true, even, that he felt somewhat defensive of Marcos, having spent the day working well with him despite Giovanni’s best efforts to keep them separated. But the real truth, the uglier one, was that he didn’t want to leave them alone; didn’t trust th–Giovanni. Didn’t trust Giovanni.

Marcos’ eyes flicked over to Matthew, though he barely turned his head. He’d stayed seated when the others were dismissed, but was beginning to wish he’d been standing. It was true that the mission had gone well, and he’d enjoyed - if you could use that word in the context of a mission under BLI orders - the chance to work with Matthew. It was rare for Marcos to see Matthew in a professional setting, which was perhaps explained in part by the way the Exterminator had repeatedly assigned them to opposite locations in the party’s radius. It was nice to have a friend on the job. 

Now, though, he was reminded of the last time he and Matthew had spoken of Giovanni, and he was not at all confident in how, exactly, Matthew would behave. Trying to catch the medic’s eye, he said, “I think I’m okay. It barely stings. I can meet you out in the hall in a few.” He just seems tired. I’ll be fine, whatever he wants to tell me shouldn’t take long. Let’s just get out of here as soon as possible and go get food.

Giovanni watched as Matthew’s eyes flicked briefly to Marcos, with an almost detached sort of interest, as if he’d walked into a room with something unexciting playing on television. Then they were back on Giovanni, and they burned suddenly like acid.

“Shut up, Silvas. Callaghan, Leave.” Giovanni was immediately aware of how petulant it was, how Matthew would see through it, and he scowled at the involuntary redness which bloomed at the tips of his ears. How dare Matthew. How dare he pull this in front of Marcos, of all people, whose use to Giovanni hinged entirely on Giovanni’s ability to intimidate from a high, untouchable place.

But now he was angry that Matthew was doing this, angry that Matthew had been playing him all day, angry that Matthew had clearly decided to punish him for some imagined slight which Giovanni hadn’t the foggiest idea of. He’d had the nerve to be worried, enough to put Matthew on this team when he had no such qualifications, just to see him and be close to him.

“That’s…” A creepy way to put it, Marcos thought but didn’t voice. He just nodded again, a short motion. “Okay.” With his concerns answered to a frankly surprising degree, he hesitated in the doorway a moment longer, and then said, “I’m going to take the dogs out in a few. So I’ll be out for a while.”

“…sir.” Unsure how to respond to what seemed like a strangely encouraging statement, Marcos returned only an acknowledgement. “Is there a way for me to… practice, I guess? So I’m not taken off guard if something - when, something goes really wrong again?”

Marcos didn’t notice his gaze; his own eyes were on the carpet, and unfocused. After a moment he gave a small nod. “I… think so.” An upward glance, and a startled blink as he realized Giovanni was already watching him. “If I focus on my… reactions, on handling what’s happening, the other stuff will come along with it. Or it won’t, but… either way, the most important thing is just responding as well as I can to what’s in front of me.”

Discomfort flashed across Marcos’ face at the direct mention of the interrogation, but he was pensive as he thought over Giovanni’s words. It made sense. It was downright reasonable, really. He exhaled through his nose, feeling something that was almost discontent. 

The silence stretched, but Giovanni didn’t break it, and eventually Marcos said, “I might have gotten someone killed. I can’t wait until shit goes wrong before I learn how to deal with it.”

“Shit will go wrong,” Giovanni said with the first trace of bitterness. His eyes trailed off to the window, where the path lights of the greenhouse illuminated its inhabitants just enough in the dark. “People will die. You will learn to minimize such effects, but in this climate, generalized priorities such as ‘I will succeed if no one dies’ or ‘I will succeed if everything goes according to plan’ will slow you down in a heated moment like... too much baggage.”

“Yes.” Marcos put his hands in his jacket pockets. He watched Giovanni’s face closely for any changes in mood or intent, but felt no danger. “You haven’t talked about it, and you haven’t - there haven’t been any… repercussions. Why not?”

The first hurdle cleared - Giovanni hadn’t shut him down immediately. Marcos was nowhere near a panic attack - which was, in and of itself, an achievement - but asking anything of Giovanni still smacked of breaking the rules, and was answered by a thin thread of anxiety. He paused just for a second or two, and found he was able to continue. 

“I want - I’d like to talk about what happened in the desert. When I fucked up.”

With a near-silent sigh, Giovanni flipped the book closed--not a terribly interesting read, frankly, as was typical with company-approved media--set it in his lap, and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded Marcos, but not too closely. A part of him was curious about what the younger man might say without the influence of fear.

“I have a question.”