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Marty paced the small living room aimlessly, scratching the back of his neck at odd intervals as he surveyed the youth perched on the edge of his sofa.
"Sorry -- " The man grunted every five minutes or so, to which Ray would automatically reply -- "It's fine."
He was lying through his teeth, of course, since his nose was occupied with a ziplock full of crushed ice. Head tilted back, he stared up at the ceiling tiles just knowing his eyes were already turning black and blue. Great. Just great. How was he going to explain this one?
Ray heard Marty flick the television on, and then off again -- he had done so twice in the last quarter hour in an attempt to defer the awkward energy stirring the air. It wasn't working, and Ray just wished he'd sit down.
Though he was still in pain, Ray took it upon himself to absorb details of the room he was in. There were movie posters and interesting things mounted on the wall from all different eras -- the 70's, the 90's, present-day .. everything from St. Elmo's Fire to the Lord of the Rings, and even It's A Wonderful Life.
To an untrained eye, it just looked like Martin Shardae had a wide taste in entertainment -- but to a detective like Ray Walker, it meant that Marty was trying his hardest to pretend like he was human.
"So -- " After the twentieth lap from the couch, to the window and back again, Marty finally worked up the composure to speak. " -- So you're .. not from the Consortium?"
Frowning, Marty reached for something in the pocket of his coat as though ready to rectify the situation in case he had misheard things. Oh dear. Ray hastily cleared his throat.
"I am not from the Consortium."
He couldn't have said it any slower or clearer, and so Marty's hands dropped back to his side. A second later they leaped to his hair, though, and then migrated to the back of his neck once more. Ray watched him warily.
"Do you know what they say about you?" The killer whispered.
"Depends who you ask." Ray replied wryly.
"Some think you're a joke, like the Consortium were playing with us. Others -- the ones you've helped in the past, they still don't know what to think. I mean, you're human. You don't .. you don't have any training. Anything. And you, you still manage to do what the rest of us can't. You still manage to stand up to them."
Ray couldn't pretend he hadn't heard this sort of thing before. He was a liability, a hero, and a huge laugh to people like Marty -- sometimes it got him praised, but sometimes it got him punched in the nose by a man who could have done much worse. Ray shifted the ziplock, wincing slightly.
"Let's get down to it, then." It was already -- Ray glanced up at the clock -- 12:30, and he wanted to at least get some sort of sleep tonight. His 'wanting' something, of course, never usually amounted to anything, but the least he could do was get Marty back on track. "Alright, so tell me. What's your side of the story?"
As though he had been waiting his entire life to be asked that question, Marty sat down at the other end of the sofa, brushed his long hair out of his eyes, and began to speak.
When Marty told a story, it became as fractured and jumpy as he was. Ray had a hard time keeping up in places, especially when the man would double back, forgetting something. In this way Ray sat and listened for almost an hour, when any sane man would have wrapped things up in about ten minutes.
It didn't help, either, that every so often Marty would get entirely too worked up over the narrative and leap to his feet, shouting about how he 'hadn't killed her! He hadn't!' and another time, how there was 'so much blood, from a little person -- but I left!'
Now, Marty was roaring feverishly with his arms flung to the side. If there were any words in those long, drawn out vowels -- Ray couldn't glean anything from them. It was a tense scene, and the youth was barely breathing. He didn't dare say a word as the killer stood there, trembling.
Spent at last, Marty sank back down into a sitting position. He buried his head in his hands, and finished his account of things, voice hoarse from yelling. Ray was glad to be done.
Once it had indeed finished, Ray's mind whirled and his ears rang. He pieced it all together in the proper order, and realized one thing.
"You're right." The youth said softly. He lifted the bag of ice off his nose, so that he could tilt his head forward and look Marty square on. "The Consortium has no right to come after you."
Marty lifted his head out of his hands, glanced over at the tow-headed teen with dark, bleary eyes -- and suddenly he was a blur, lunging across the sofa. Ray gave a shout, sure that he was about to be --
-- hugged?
Sweaty, greasy hair fell into Ray's face as the killer expressed his gratitude the only way he knew how. Thinking it would be bad form to swear and jerk away, Ray let Marty pull him in a rib-crunching embrace -- however glad he was that his nose was out of commission.
"Ray Walker, thank you." Marty released him, and in the low-lit living room, Ray thought he saw that gash of a mouth twist into a normal(ish) smile. "No one would believe me. No one but you."
"Yeah, well .. " Ray gave a tug at his shirt, trying to situate himself again after being pounced. "It's in the job description." He rose to his feet. "I'll be in touch, Marty. And when I say I'll be in touch, I mean I'll be coming back here again soon."
The killer nodded. Ray blinked.
"So that means .. no unpleasant surprises." He reapplied the ziplock to his nose, again, to make a point. "Are -- are we clear on that?"
The killer nodded harder.
"Good." Ray cleared his throat, and glanced to the door. "Mind if I go out the front?"
The killer nodded yet again, and made it to the entryway at once. Ray noticed the vast assortment of deadbolts and chains staring back at him, realizing this was why he had been forced to come in through the garage. Marty's fingers flashed, undoing all of them, fumbling not once.
This manreally didn't like company.
"Thank you, Ray Walker." Marty wrenched the little-used door open, and Ray cheerfully pretended he hadn't seen the handful of earwigs scuttling for new cover. The killer gave a short stunted motion that looked almost like a bow. "I -- I look forward to hearing from you again. And I will not kill you."
"I appreciate it." Ray took care not to tread on the bugs as he slipped past Martin Shardae with an awkward nod, opened the screen door, and stepped out onto the front porch.
He had made it down the overgrown sidewalk, to the street and across where his Taurus was parked before he thought to look back.
The house was dark and Ray couldn't see anything, but he lifted his hand and waved at the living room window anyways. This was a safety measure, in case Marty had been expecting some additional token of farewell. Ray thought it better to wave absently than risk putting the killer off for their next meeting.
Once he had unlocked his car and slipped into the driver's seat, Ray seized the rearview mirror and jerked it down to inspect his nose. He looked like he had gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. Ahh, crud.
Eh. Ray dropped the ziplock bag into the cup-holder, and jammed the key into the ignition. Now, this one would take some explaining ..
