J. “Ghost” Martinez is burned bright in his brain. Now it was important to note Daniel didn’t particularly care for Martinez, and Martinez had never particularly cared for him; on the subject of soldiering, they’d both bit the bullet by sticking to a hair-trigger. Fortune did not favor the bold. But he remembers now, more clear than his own name, pretending to make conversation by the water cooler and the fight between Buxton and Martinez on the morality of dog sledding. Buxton, being the thoroughly disgusted, paper pushing vegan that he was, described the practice as abusive while Martinez- ever the apathetic carnivore- laid it out simple. A sled dog was bred to work. It was molded to work- if you didn’t work it hard, it’d go all crazy like. It’d chew its own foot off. It’d die on its own leash.
At the time Daniel had been nursing two bullet wounds on three hours of sleep. He’d thought that was bullshit; tell him to sit on a couch all day long and he’d hang up his holster for a joint and a tv in nothing but a heartbeat. But now?
He feels like he’ll chew his own leg off. Like he’s losing his fucking mind.
It wasn’t boredom. It wasn’t despair. It was something chemical. Something real wrong. The novelty of easy murder had worn off- it wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be. He’d been systematically deconstructed to fight- not just to kill but to fight. With no resistance, no push back, no drugs he cant sleep, he cant think. His heart beats like cracked-out schizophrenic in his chest.
When it became too much he’d come marching back to Carter, just like he had in life so he does in death. Just like the times he couldn’t remember if he was the KGB hawk or the CIA hound. He’ll push, poke in prod but he knows the good doctor will put a hand on his throat and tell him sit- gives him direction till he pulls the person out of him. It’s humbling, but he needs it- desperately.
❝ Do I ??❞, he shoves the door open with his boot, flicking a half-finished smoke to the ground then crushing it under foot. ❝ Mmmmm been sleeping on the floor next to Wilbur, Babe and Napoleon. Makes sense. Meat factory. No science project either, I got hungry on the way over i’m afraid.❞
Daniel plays it cool, undeterred by Herman’s indifference. It was like him- ivy league right to the marrow. Cool and collected, even with nails in his skull- rods in his eyes. He strolls right over- doesn’t miss a beat. If Herman wont look at him, he’ll make him look.
Just like that he’s on him.
Hands on the lab coat lapel- half leans down and half pulls the other man up, out of the chair. Look at him- all mangled and still pushing pens. Still Herman Fucking Carter. In the old days, he’d go for the lips, but there isn’t much of those anymore so he settles on the jaw. As his tongue tastes iron, he whispers so low he hopes Herman won’t hear.
❝ No formality. Please- get me the fuck out of my head. ❞
Thankfully, Carter misses the sight of the discarded cigarette, but finding it later, he won’t be at all surprised. Fabron litters in his office like it’s the dumpster he smells of regularly. He should demand that Daniel pick up his discarded items with his TEETH...but he hasn’t. Not yet. The reference and flurry of names slip past as if nothing was said at all, his focus on his admittance to sleeping at the meat factory. If his eye lids were free, they would droop with dissatisfaction. A huff that can only mean a grimace will have to suffice. At least the threat of a potato is no longer part of the equation. His eyes roll of their own accord, sclera catching dryly against sockets.
Herman is truly at a loss as to why exactly any of the others would extend a tolerant welcome to Daniel Fabron. In life, he was avoided. The spy exuded instability, a young man searching far and wide for trouble, leaving no stone unturned. Only those with a severe lack of common sense drew near to him, attracted by his reckless abandon and silver tongue...which the CIA was, and most likely still is, full of.
The doctor is content to wait, seemingly rather blasé about the prospect of intimacy. He doesn’t get the chance. Always mildly indignant, if not surprised by the Frenchmen’s strength, Herman’s body tenses as he’s pulled by his clothes. As if to counter, still half-seated, Carter pulls down, using his weight as Daniel’s tongue grazes his jaw, lips pressed against torn flesh. As if he were simply beginning his side of a conversation, Herman’s hand finds the back of his neck, cupping it tightly as if holding him by the scruff. Pressure. The doctor his pushing him closer, his lap waiting.
He operates in formality. The chance to stray from it is intoxicating and Herman allows himself to dissolve into it with a low crackle of electricity. “I’ll have to enter yours.”
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