#27 -- Parents
Disclaimer: I own neither Without A Trace, nor the characters involved. They belong to Warner Brothers Television. I make no money from these works, they are for entertainment purposes only.
Title: "Blame Booze and Melville"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #27 - Parents
Word Count: 1,700 (approx)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Endgame and basic Season 4
Author's Notes:: Thank you to kate98 for the beta. Also part of control_freak80's "Gilmore Girls Title Challenge"
BLAME BOOZE AND MELVILLE
He stares up at the ceiling, listening to the drone. Occasionally the pitch changes and he understands a few words.
"You're getting much better, they say. With the wheelchair, you can go out now, see your friends."
Friends. Maybe, maybe not. Coworkers for certain - there is nothing that can erase that indelible fact save for him not returning to the only job he has ever loved - but friends is another issue. He's not quite sure what those are, really. "I would prefer not to."
"How about something to eat, then? You should eat. Now, I've spoken with the staff and the dietician, I know you have specific tastes…"
Yes, he does, of the see-food variety. He sees food, he eats it. She knows nothing of his tastes other than those she has imposed upon him.
"…and I've arranged for special meals for you. That is not an easy thing to do, Martin. Now, they tell me you haven't been eating properly. I realise that this is very trying for you…"
"I would prefer not to."
"Martin, this is not a joke. I understand that this is a difficult time for you. You are not making it any easier on yourself by not cooperating."
"I would prefer not to."
"Could the two of you try getting along for once?" A new voice enters the conversation, but since the speaker is standing in the doorway to the room and not directly above the bed, Martin can't see him. Not that Martin needs to see to confirm identity, he has spent a great many years not listening to that voice.
"I would prefer not to."
He hears her huff in frustration, then gather her things and leave. Then he is alone, except for the man who doesn't exist.
"You realise that the sooner you improve and get out of here, the less you will have to deal with her." His father comes in and takes the chair his mother has just vacated.
"I would prefer not to at all."
"I am well aware what you would prefer. Unfortunately, as Mick Jagger once stated, you can't always get what you want."
He doesn't answer. He's never been too fond of reality, as this man would be happy to attest. Victor uses 'dreamer' like an epithet, and it's one of the few consistent labels he has for his son. At the same time, his mind is trying to reconcile his upper-class, high-culture father with the Rolling Stones. The image doesn't work.
"Your mother is merely concerned about you. I wish you could realise that."
He does. He knows she's concerned about him. She's always concerned about her things, like the cut-crystal sherry decanter on the dining room sideboard, and the only reason he's thinking about that is because it's the first place he goes whenever he goes home. Why? Because to deal with her he needs chemical help, which should be a sign that he should not be forced to deal with her. "I would prefer not to."
"I would prefer it if you hadn't been shot. Did it ever occur to you that there was a reason I didn't want you working for the FBI?"
Damn the man, he asks questions in all the wrong ways. How is he supposed to answer that one without becoming more verbose and varying from the pattern? It's that federal agent's training; it's not fair that after so many years off the street his father still remembers how to hold an interrogation.
"I think the problem is that I let you get away with too damn much over the years. You think the world is supposed to operate the way you want it to and to hell with everyone else. When are you going to grow up?"
"I would prefer not to." He was a grownup when he was a kid, why can't he take time to be a sulky kid now that he's a grownup?
"I think, if you'll make the effort to recall, Martin," Victor's voice couldn't get more sarcastic without importing feeling from another country, "that Bartleby died in the end. This, however, is a new America. It's rather hard to say you'd prefer not to eat when you have a feeding tube lodged in your throat." His smile isn't friendly. "Don't forget who you're dealing with. Your mother wouldn't do something like that because it isn't 'nice.' I would, because as you once so eloquently stated, I don't give a crap about your feelings."
"No, because you haven't got the heart of a Wall Street lawyer," Martin mutters. He vows to have someone bring in a video camera so he can make a living will demanding no such measures be taken.
"I'd prefer not to," Victor shoots back, dryly. The only problem with playing this game with his father versus his mother is that Victor has read the entire Melville canon and is willing to throw the words back in his face. Martin can't imagine why his father would waste his time with old Herman's arid prose, except perhaps that years of being married to the Wicked Witch of the North have made even the epic of Ahab seem interesting. Martin was probably the only kid at school wishing his parents would get a divorce. Well, his real wish was that they'd both die in some horrible accident and he could go live with one of his sets of cousins and everyone would be extra nice to him because of the nasty thing that happened. But no. Dad had to be a sane, normal driver, they had to always get on safe airplanes and never did anything risky with the barbeque. Sometimes Martin used to despair for his parents' intelligence. His father could arrange multi-agency coordinated operations and his mother could arrange charity balls for thousands of attendees, but neither one could manage to engineer a simple disaster. No, somehow it was always Martin who ended up in the hospital, precariously near-death. If he were paranoid, he'd consider the possibility that his mother somehow arranged that, in a twisted Munchausen-by-proxy kind of way. "And don't tell me you're not eating because you don't like the food, because unlike your mother, I know that you have no sense of taste."
"Neither does her food, which is probably why I never developed one." The best days were the days when Luisa, the housekeeper, shared the snacks she always brought. His mother must wonder why, twenty years after Luisa left the Fitzgerald employ, Martin still buys her Christmas presents and sends Mother's Day cards. Luisa taught him the two most important things in life, how to cook and how to clean, and he likes to show his appreciation.
"You only ever starved by choice. This time, I'm not giving you that option." Victor's eyes suddenly narrow, and he sniffs. "What's that smell?"
"What smell?" Martin suddenly wrinkles his nose. "Oh, Matt came out and brought me a present. The staff took it away on the grounds that it might be toxic."
"The only reason your cousin is bringing you lutefisk is to cover for something else." Victor glares. "What have you been eating?"
"Not lutefisk. I'm already in the hospital. I don't need to compound the problem." Lutefisk is a lot like dwarf-bread. You never actually eat the stuff, you just stare at it for a while before you decide that no matter how hungry you are, you're not quite that hungry.
"Martin…"
"Hey, you married the lousy cook. It's not my fault you've decided to continue to suffer."
"You are on a restricted diet."
"Matt's a doctor."
"For cattle."
"A fair number of MD's flunked out of vet school. DVM is by far the better degree."
"Only in an agrarian society. Now hand over the contraband."
"No."
"I'll tell your mother."
"It's in the cabinet." Martin nods at the small, bedside table.
Victor removes a small flask, unscrews the lid and sniffs it. "Any more?"
"No. That's my entire supply." Martin pouts. It cost him a fortune for the ingredients for that soup. Who knew organic food could cost so much? He decides not to tell his father about the beef jerky stashed under his pillow. His mother's not the only one paying for special, doctor-approved meals. Matty just happens to be a fantastic cook.
"Good. I do believe they have a microwave down in the cafeteria."
"I hope you get heartburn." Damn his mother, anyway. If she hadn't picked when she did to come in, he would have been able to scarf down the whole thing. "I hope it explodes in your face and you get third-degree burns and are scarred for life. I hope you get food poisoning…"
"I've survived years of your mother's cooking. Highly unlikely." Victor recaps the thermos bottle.
"I'm going to get out of here, then Matt and I are invading your place for the holidays," Martin threatens.
"Over your dead body. I still haven't found an adequate replacement for that chair, and you've yet to cover the expenses incurred for replacing it and the bloodstained carpet."
"It was my blood. I would think my time and pain would be payment enough."
"Punishment, not payment. It's time you learned the difference between the two."
"In other words, you don't really care about me getting better, you care about the fact that this is costing you money." Dangerous words to throw at this man, but probably close to the truth.
"Believe what you want, Martin." Victor gets up.
Wait. Martin sees his mother returning. He sends up a prayer to any God that might listen, begging that his father stay. Don't leave me with her. Daddy, please. He actually said that once, when his father prepared to leave for a business trip, and Martin was naïve enough to believe that honesty really was the best policy, over keeping your dumb mouth shut. Back when he believed his father might actually care, when he believed that his dad could do anything, when he thought 'cowed' had to do with cattle, not cowardliness. He knows better, now. That's why he doesn't say it aloud. His heart says it instead, speaking through the monitor that could double as a polygraph.
Victor does one better, continuing to leave and taking her away with him, saving Martin the need to duck beneath the covers to hide from the monster. For perhaps the first time in his life, he feels a flash of gratitude towards his father. He thinks he might survive, if he had to face her again, but he'd really prefer not to.
Title: "Blame Booze and Melville"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #27 - Parents
Word Count: 1,700 (approx)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Endgame and basic Season 4
Author's Notes:: Thank you to kate98 for the beta. Also part of control_freak80's "Gilmore Girls Title Challenge"
BLAME BOOZE AND MELVILLE
He stares up at the ceiling, listening to the drone. Occasionally the pitch changes and he understands a few words.
"You're getting much better, they say. With the wheelchair, you can go out now, see your friends."
Friends. Maybe, maybe not. Coworkers for certain - there is nothing that can erase that indelible fact save for him not returning to the only job he has ever loved - but friends is another issue. He's not quite sure what those are, really. "I would prefer not to."
"How about something to eat, then? You should eat. Now, I've spoken with the staff and the dietician, I know you have specific tastes…"
Yes, he does, of the see-food variety. He sees food, he eats it. She knows nothing of his tastes other than those she has imposed upon him.
"…and I've arranged for special meals for you. That is not an easy thing to do, Martin. Now, they tell me you haven't been eating properly. I realise that this is very trying for you…"
"I would prefer not to."
"Martin, this is not a joke. I understand that this is a difficult time for you. You are not making it any easier on yourself by not cooperating."
"I would prefer not to."
"Could the two of you try getting along for once?" A new voice enters the conversation, but since the speaker is standing in the doorway to the room and not directly above the bed, Martin can't see him. Not that Martin needs to see to confirm identity, he has spent a great many years not listening to that voice.
"I would prefer not to."
He hears her huff in frustration, then gather her things and leave. Then he is alone, except for the man who doesn't exist.
"You realise that the sooner you improve and get out of here, the less you will have to deal with her." His father comes in and takes the chair his mother has just vacated.
"I would prefer not to at all."
"I am well aware what you would prefer. Unfortunately, as Mick Jagger once stated, you can't always get what you want."
He doesn't answer. He's never been too fond of reality, as this man would be happy to attest. Victor uses 'dreamer' like an epithet, and it's one of the few consistent labels he has for his son. At the same time, his mind is trying to reconcile his upper-class, high-culture father with the Rolling Stones. The image doesn't work.
"Your mother is merely concerned about you. I wish you could realise that."
He does. He knows she's concerned about him. She's always concerned about her things, like the cut-crystal sherry decanter on the dining room sideboard, and the only reason he's thinking about that is because it's the first place he goes whenever he goes home. Why? Because to deal with her he needs chemical help, which should be a sign that he should not be forced to deal with her. "I would prefer not to."
"I would prefer it if you hadn't been shot. Did it ever occur to you that there was a reason I didn't want you working for the FBI?"
Damn the man, he asks questions in all the wrong ways. How is he supposed to answer that one without becoming more verbose and varying from the pattern? It's that federal agent's training; it's not fair that after so many years off the street his father still remembers how to hold an interrogation.
"I think the problem is that I let you get away with too damn much over the years. You think the world is supposed to operate the way you want it to and to hell with everyone else. When are you going to grow up?"
"I would prefer not to." He was a grownup when he was a kid, why can't he take time to be a sulky kid now that he's a grownup?
"I think, if you'll make the effort to recall, Martin," Victor's voice couldn't get more sarcastic without importing feeling from another country, "that Bartleby died in the end. This, however, is a new America. It's rather hard to say you'd prefer not to eat when you have a feeding tube lodged in your throat." His smile isn't friendly. "Don't forget who you're dealing with. Your mother wouldn't do something like that because it isn't 'nice.' I would, because as you once so eloquently stated, I don't give a crap about your feelings."
"No, because you haven't got the heart of a Wall Street lawyer," Martin mutters. He vows to have someone bring in a video camera so he can make a living will demanding no such measures be taken.
"I'd prefer not to," Victor shoots back, dryly. The only problem with playing this game with his father versus his mother is that Victor has read the entire Melville canon and is willing to throw the words back in his face. Martin can't imagine why his father would waste his time with old Herman's arid prose, except perhaps that years of being married to the Wicked Witch of the North have made even the epic of Ahab seem interesting. Martin was probably the only kid at school wishing his parents would get a divorce. Well, his real wish was that they'd both die in some horrible accident and he could go live with one of his sets of cousins and everyone would be extra nice to him because of the nasty thing that happened. But no. Dad had to be a sane, normal driver, they had to always get on safe airplanes and never did anything risky with the barbeque. Sometimes Martin used to despair for his parents' intelligence. His father could arrange multi-agency coordinated operations and his mother could arrange charity balls for thousands of attendees, but neither one could manage to engineer a simple disaster. No, somehow it was always Martin who ended up in the hospital, precariously near-death. If he were paranoid, he'd consider the possibility that his mother somehow arranged that, in a twisted Munchausen-by-proxy kind of way. "And don't tell me you're not eating because you don't like the food, because unlike your mother, I know that you have no sense of taste."
"Neither does her food, which is probably why I never developed one." The best days were the days when Luisa, the housekeeper, shared the snacks she always brought. His mother must wonder why, twenty years after Luisa left the Fitzgerald employ, Martin still buys her Christmas presents and sends Mother's Day cards. Luisa taught him the two most important things in life, how to cook and how to clean, and he likes to show his appreciation.
"You only ever starved by choice. This time, I'm not giving you that option." Victor's eyes suddenly narrow, and he sniffs. "What's that smell?"
"What smell?" Martin suddenly wrinkles his nose. "Oh, Matt came out and brought me a present. The staff took it away on the grounds that it might be toxic."
"The only reason your cousin is bringing you lutefisk is to cover for something else." Victor glares. "What have you been eating?"
"Not lutefisk. I'm already in the hospital. I don't need to compound the problem." Lutefisk is a lot like dwarf-bread. You never actually eat the stuff, you just stare at it for a while before you decide that no matter how hungry you are, you're not quite that hungry.
"Martin…"
"Hey, you married the lousy cook. It's not my fault you've decided to continue to suffer."
"You are on a restricted diet."
"Matt's a doctor."
"For cattle."
"A fair number of MD's flunked out of vet school. DVM is by far the better degree."
"Only in an agrarian society. Now hand over the contraband."
"No."
"I'll tell your mother."
"It's in the cabinet." Martin nods at the small, bedside table.
Victor removes a small flask, unscrews the lid and sniffs it. "Any more?"
"No. That's my entire supply." Martin pouts. It cost him a fortune for the ingredients for that soup. Who knew organic food could cost so much? He decides not to tell his father about the beef jerky stashed under his pillow. His mother's not the only one paying for special, doctor-approved meals. Matty just happens to be a fantastic cook.
"Good. I do believe they have a microwave down in the cafeteria."
"I hope you get heartburn." Damn his mother, anyway. If she hadn't picked when she did to come in, he would have been able to scarf down the whole thing. "I hope it explodes in your face and you get third-degree burns and are scarred for life. I hope you get food poisoning…"
"I've survived years of your mother's cooking. Highly unlikely." Victor recaps the thermos bottle.
"I'm going to get out of here, then Matt and I are invading your place for the holidays," Martin threatens.
"Over your dead body. I still haven't found an adequate replacement for that chair, and you've yet to cover the expenses incurred for replacing it and the bloodstained carpet."
"It was my blood. I would think my time and pain would be payment enough."
"Punishment, not payment. It's time you learned the difference between the two."
"In other words, you don't really care about me getting better, you care about the fact that this is costing you money." Dangerous words to throw at this man, but probably close to the truth.
"Believe what you want, Martin." Victor gets up.
Wait. Martin sees his mother returning. He sends up a prayer to any God that might listen, begging that his father stay. Don't leave me with her. Daddy, please. He actually said that once, when his father prepared to leave for a business trip, and Martin was naïve enough to believe that honesty really was the best policy, over keeping your dumb mouth shut. Back when he believed his father might actually care, when he believed that his dad could do anything, when he thought 'cowed' had to do with cattle, not cowardliness. He knows better, now. That's why he doesn't say it aloud. His heart says it instead, speaking through the monitor that could double as a polygraph.
Victor does one better, continuing to leave and taking her away with him, saving Martin the need to duck beneath the covers to hide from the monster. For perhaps the first time in his life, he feels a flash of gratitude towards his father. He thinks he might survive, if he had to face her again, but he'd really prefer not to.