The Silvas Boys

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–”

Giovanni found himself looming over the shorter man–not too close, the phantom impressions of Matthew’s teeth stinging in his face–and the subtle expression of a cornered animal darkened Matthew’s pupils and quickened his breath. But he did not back off because he never did, in Giovanni’s memory. He had the look of a dog itching for a throat between its teeth. Regret and caution flooded Giovanni’s haphazard thoughts, but at the edges, there was a dark satisfaction, too. The moment hung suspended.

il–dottore‌:

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.

“Go wait in the hall, if you’re so impatient. That’s an order.” It was almost worth it, seeing the angry flush spread over Matthew’s face.

“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.

“Overall… good work.”

The Exterminator’s delivery was indistinguishable from a reaction of displeasure or neutrality, but several sets of shoulders sagged minutely. The small debriefing room was silent despite the dozen or so huddled people inside it, every pair of eyes trained on the clear authority figure. Giovanni sighed silently, post-mission exhaustion creeping into his limbs and eyes, though invisible in his posture.

“Dismissed. Except you,” he pointed to Marcos Silvas, who concealed his disappointment well enough. The room burst into motion as the remainder of the team shuffled all too readily out the door, waiting until they were well down the hall to begin talking amongst themselves. Their voices faded quickly and Giovanni was glad to have shed his audience–well. 

He felt no surprise when he turned to see that Matthew Callaghan, the team medic for this particular outing, had not moved from his spot against a wall. No surprise, only a heavier exhaustion. Irritation, perhaps. Matthew had dodged all of Giovanni’s attempts at meeting outside of work for the last week and some, and over the course of the day had been blandly (pointedly) professional. He stared at Giovanni now with the same mild look which belied a challenge.

“Dismissed.” Giovanni repeated, sharper.

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.”