Billy just nodded, his eyes closed, as if agreeing. He knew that's what he should do. But how could he explain it? It wasn't the normal sort of punch-in-the-gut reaction people got upon seeing such death and gore. He'd stood among dead bodies before. Rifled through their pockets. Dressed them up to be decoys. He'd killed people himself. Broken noses and limbs. Snapped fingers to get people to talk. But there was something about blood that was neither his own nor caused by his actions that made his skin crawl. Anything else, he could push down and ignore until he had time to deal with it. But each thing in its own box. But not this. It was like he tried to put it in a box, wrapped up neat and tidy like anything else. But them moment he tried to put the lid on, it exploded into a million swarming spiders. It seeped into every inch of him and he couldn't contain it.
But saying it was a phobia, a true and honest phobia that he had no means of controlling, still had Mike telling him to just get over it. And again he found himself wondering what could have happened to Mike to make him so cold, so calloused. Yes, he was the second in command of a rag-tag mafia. But nothing before this had seemed truly cold.
Taking a few slow breaths, Billy finally got to his feet and flushed the toilet. He took his time going to the sink. Rinsing his hands. Using cupped hands to get water into his mouth, clearing out the vile taste. He just needed to build a wall. A box wouldn't work, but maybe a wall. He splashed water on his face and ran his hands down over his scruff. A wall. Between him and all emotion. For the sake of the mission. Slowly, with slightly unsteady hands, he unbuttoned his blazer. A wall to contain everything, to get through this. With slightly steadier hands he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. A solid wall. Brick. Leaving him on the outside alone. Methodically, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. A wall as high as the eye could see. Nothing could get through or over. Finally, he shed his vest. Leaving him in his suspenders. The vest he hung with the jacket.
More or less composed, he looked at Mike. "What do I need to do?" Calm. Almost cold. Straightforward. He'd see if this would work the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2015-07-19 07:37 am (UTC)But saying it was a phobia, a true and honest phobia that he had no means of controlling, still had Mike telling him to just get over it. And again he found himself wondering what could have happened to Mike to make him so cold, so calloused. Yes, he was the second in command of a rag-tag mafia. But nothing before this had seemed truly cold.
Taking a few slow breaths, Billy finally got to his feet and flushed the toilet. He took his time going to the sink. Rinsing his hands. Using cupped hands to get water into his mouth, clearing out the vile taste. He just needed to build a wall. A box wouldn't work, but maybe a wall. He splashed water on his face and ran his hands down over his scruff. A wall. Between him and all emotion. For the sake of the mission. Slowly, with slightly unsteady hands, he unbuttoned his blazer. A wall to contain everything, to get through this. With slightly steadier hands he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. A solid wall. Brick. Leaving him on the outside alone. Methodically, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. A wall as high as the eye could see. Nothing could get through or over. Finally, he shed his vest. Leaving him in his suspenders. The vest he hung with the jacket.
More or less composed, he looked at Mike. "What do I need to do?" Calm. Almost cold. Straightforward. He'd see if this would work the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.