Martin could see right through Gareth. Through the cool, collected, decisive leader to the fact that at his core he was like everyone else. Gareth reacted to touch, became aroused, and made the same groans when he came just as everyone else. Though still daunted by the man, Martin felt he held a secret about him. The secret that they were fundamentally the same.
His leader servicing and rolling around undressed beneath the sheets as an apology engorged his ego. The ego that grew when Gareth went back on his statement that their tryst was a one-time relapse. However, Martin knew he would come back for more since he left his socks in his room. A dumb ploy, he thought. As the man would never be as thoughtless to leave his socks behind.
After Gareth left following their second round, Martin's eyes began to water and nose run as if he inhaled a helping of pepper. The pillowcase he received that day had a dusting of fur over it.
Damn cats.
From the orange and white tint to the fur, he knew it was from the one named Heathcliff. He liked cats and had pet Heathcliff the day before while covering his hand with a sock. Yet the allergy he developed to them in his mid-teens held strong.
When his reaction began, his parents opted to give away their black and white Manx, much to the dismay of his sister, Marion. Martin asked them if they would vacuum the house more and allow him to take an allergy medication—anything to save Marion from giving up her cat. Luckily, they agreed, marking a time when he felt his parents reasonable for once.
Claritin… Claritin… he thought as he stripped off the pillowcase and headed to the laundry room. After dumping the case, he made it to the infirmary to see what medications they had on deck. The drawers housed a plethora of boxes, bottles, and packets of pills. He noted a cabinet with a lock above him where he assumed they kept the fun drugs.
A box of generic Claritin rested at the back of the drawer and Martin retrieved two pills from it, though he thought their capsule form unusual.
In his pre-turn home on the edge of Savannah, Martin sat on the rough green rug at the end of his bed. Marion appeared cross-legged before him cradling a baby dressed in a fuzzy blue onesie.
"See?" Marion said, smiling and gazing down at the child. "This is the little guy I would've had. The one you decided I shouldn't have."
"I did you a favor, Mare," Martin replied with a quick sigh.
"I know. This world's brutal. Too ugly to bring somethin' like this into it."
He looked down to see his arms buried in a white cooler, hands around his nephew's neck. "What the hell!?"
"Do it. Save him from bein' ruined. It's just one twist, man."
He released his grip and brought his hands to his side. "Really? You're gonna pull this on me? I wasn't even related to that kid. You know what? You always guilt-tripped me. I thought I was finally free of this when I put a bullet through your fuckin' psychotic head."
Marion leaned forward and hugged him, the cooler between them disappearing. "Oh, shut up, Martin. We both know you don't mean that. Don't be dead."
Martin kept his arms at his side. "I ain't dead."
"Maybe." She tightened her grip and warmth enveloped him. He had been sweating pressed against Gareth's skin mere hours before, but he hadn't been warm—not in years.
Giving in, he placed his hands on the soft material of her royal blue sweater and patted the long, straight black hair that ran down her back.
She let out a pleased hum. "I think you still love me."
"Doesn't matter." He rested his head on her shoulder.
"Liar. I always know when you're lyin', dummy."
The side of his mouth twitched up. "I don't appreciate this."
"Mm-hm." She pulled away and looked down at the baby she held again. "I think he looks like you. Well, he looks like both of us since we might as well be identical twins." She ran her finger across the baby's cheek. "See? He's got that puffy thing goin' on under his eyes like we do."
"Nice lookin' kid. He'll definitely be able to get a good amount of tail when he's grown."
She laughed. "Ew, you had to go and ruin it!" She gave him a playful shove.
He smiled. "Of course. Man, still wish you'd have given me the name of the guy who knocked you up then said get lost. I'd still like to fuck him up."
She giggled. "Well, it would've all been good. He gave me this little guy. All worth it. Even if he isn't around."
"So what would you have named him?"
She pursed her lips. "Um… I don't know. Thought about Bobby."
"Oh, hell no. That just makes me think of Bobbi from two doors down who used to step outside in just her britches and yell at the neighborhood dogs."
"Forgot about her. Keeled over of a heart attack right? She was like three-hundred pounds."
"Yeah, somethin' like that. Always thought I'd name my son Devin. Don't know why, kind of a douchey-ass name in hindsight."
Her eyes lit up. "Devin! I love it." She turned and beamed at her baby who was then in a white bassinet beside them.
"I shouldn't have killed you. Should've tried to shoot you in the leg or somethin'. At least before I went for the head."
Marion turned back to him, her face glowing with a maternal warmth. "It's okay."
"No, it ain't. 'Cause I didn't even think. My fraternal twin sister and I shot her right between the eyes."
"That's why you're still alive, 'cause you acted. Didn't stop to think, didn't try to be the guy that saved babies, just did what you had to. I didn't have my meds when I went off and I shouldn't have still been takin' 'em anyway 'cause those doctors said they could cause birth defects. So either way, I was S.O.L." She paused. "I still love you."
He scoffed. "Then you got no idea the shit I've done."
"Yeah, I do, actually. I know every horrible bit of it. Watched it pile up day after day and I still love you just as much as I always have."
"Then that's what really makes you crazy, duck sauce."
"Good, then I don't wanna be sane." She edged forward and rested her head on his shoulder.
Whatever Martin swallowed in that box was not Claritin. The drug never made him feel as if he held a hundred pound weight on his body. His dreams always floated away seconds after waking, but this time they lingered along with the drowsiness of the medication.
Marion. Her image was so real, so vivid. Her face, the sleekness of her hair, the blue of her sweater, and most of all, her warmth seeping from her skin onto his. She had been as real as he was.
A nightmare was preferable over the sickly sweet vision of his sister and her child. Dreams of pleasant memories and cute hypothetical futures were lies. Nightmares he welcomed; they were a reality.
"There's tons of sad people around with the funeral earlier. So if we get drunk, it won't be outta the usual," Martin said as he strolled beside Albert to the cafeteria. "'Cause you know, sadness and all. And I never got you shit-faced the other night. Or Alex."
Any excuse to drown himself in drink and forget his dream.
Albert gave a small grimace. "Yeah, I don't really want to be shit-faced."
"Did you speak?" They turned the hallway corner. "'Cause all I heard was foghorns. It's my job as your elder to get you properly wasted."
Albert quirked a smile. "Yeah, okay. Let's start with peach schnapps. Blueberry wine."
He sighed as they passed through the archway into the cafeteria. "Man, don't even joke about that."
Scanning the room, he spotted Alex sitting at a table near the kitchen beside the child he thought was named Roy.
Aha.
Martin and Albert crossed the room to their table, Martin then breaking through Alex and the child's conversation, "Hey, kid, you're gonna need to skedaddle."
The child looked at him with big eyes. "I know."
Alex threw Martin a look. "Dude, he was just about to go. It's almost his bed time anyway." He turned back to the boy. "That's what a grown-up looks like who never learned manners, Roy."
Damn, does he have baby fever. Since his bets with Greg and Chuck at Terminus as to when Theresa would get pregnant never panned out, he wondered if Albert would want to wager. The thought then wandered to Marion and her child.
He pushed it away and took a seat across from Alex, sighing. "Sorry, kid. I was raised in the barn they called lower middle-class Savannah, Georgia."
Albert shook his head and took a seat by Alex, looking at Roy. "Can you make it back to your room alone?"
Roy nodded. "Yeah, I guess I should go." He climbed to his feet.
"Take care," Alex said with a smile. Roy waved and headed off toward the exit.
Martin placed his elbows on the table. "Nice when you don't have to wonder if they'll be on your dinner plate, huh?"
Alex scowled. "There a reason you're botherin' me?"
"Martin wanted to get us drunk," Albert said.
"Yeah, go see what you can find in the kitchen," Martin suggested.
"What if I don't wanna get drunk?" Alex asked.
"Oh, for the love of—you two are givin' me gray hairs. At least have one? You had two shots of tequila the other night, then left." Alex shrugged a reply.
Albert stretched and stood up. "I'm going to go see what they have whether you want to join or not." He turned and headed to the kitchen.
"Oh no," Alex muttered, looking behind Martin.
Martin glanced over his shoulder to see Gabby approaching with her trademark smirk. The woman grated on every nerve in his body. Her cockiness, the way she seemed to think she owned their group, and her painted on eyebrows made his skin itch.
Alex stiffened in his seat as she stopped by their table. "You need somethin'?"
"That brother of yours," Gabby said, raising a hand to her hip. "Always getting away from me."
"Don't know where he is."
Damn. Martin thought Alex might hate her more than he did.
To get the chinchilla speaking in a rude tone to someone meant they ticked him off pretty bad. The fight he witnessed between Alex and Theresa was a considerable one, though it appeared the happy couple made up as he saw them looking fine and dandy earlier.
"Martin?" Gabby inquired. He shook his head. "Alright then." She let out a long exhale and looked to see Albert returning with three glasses between his fingers and a bottle of whiskey. "Albert? I'm concerned about Cynthia after what happened. She seems like such a gentle soul. You know where she is?"
Albert halted by the table and set the bottle and glasses on the table. "I think she was playing… uh… Mario Kart in the rec room."
She smiled. "Oh, I'm glad you're taking advantage of all our luxuries. Well, I'll go see her." She gave a cheerful wave and went on her way.
"Chick's hidin' somethin' big," Martin said as Albert sat down next to him.
"Naz's husband," Alex said.
He slid Alex and Albert a glass. "You think she has his walker somewhere?"
"Walkers don't eat sandwiches. But I don't know, she might've sounded like she was kiddin'."
Martin unscrewed the bottle's lid. "Oh, I know what it is. She has a whole reverse harem locked up somewhere. You and Gareth were candidates. Or Gareth is at least."
"Wouldn't surprise me, honestly," Alex said, pushing his glass forward.
Martin poured a shot into his cup, then Albert's and his own. "Well, the question isn't if she has somethin' fishy, it's what and where."
"You remember Linda?" Albert asked Alex, lifting the glass to his lips.
Alex downed the whole shot at once, his face contorting. "Yeah."
Martin wondered if his 'uptight' comment affected Alex so much that he needed to prove him wrong. He smirked at the notion.
Albert took a sip, expressing no reaction, and looked to Martin. "When her brother got bit, she tried to keep his walker around like a pet."
"That before the band of assholes took over?" Martin asked, draining his glass. They nodded. "Well, you know what? The only way you're gonna get anything outta Gabby is to liquor her up and get under her skirt. Albert."
"What? Why am I doing it?"
"'Cause she irritates the livin' shit outta me."
Alex laughed. "I don't think she shops in the junior's section, man."
Ooh, the chinchilla bites the baby kangaroo.
Martin raised his eyebrows. "Whoa, Alex, that's cold."
"Yeah, really," Albert said, taking another swig.
Martin refilled his glass. "I know, you're a big boy."
Albert stole the bottle away. "You remember that time I clocked you in the face? That was incredible."
He shrugged. "Eh, it was alright. I've had better."
"Hey, I never got my shot at you," Alex said. "Albert, let's hold him down. If itty-bitty Beth could choke him enough to make him black out, then imagine how bad we could fuck him up."
"It was fuckin' dark, man," Martin bit. "Totally overcast, no moon."
Though his annoyance was real, thoughts of the dream of Marion began to recede to the back of his mind.
After leaving a buzzed Albert and Alex, Martin lumbered back toward their group's quarters. He would pass out soon, but before he did, he needed to find Gareth. Needed to sink his flushed and tingly skin into his.
Martin turned a corner and ran straight into Theresa.
"Hey! What the hell!?" she exclaimed, backing away.
He attempted to focus on her. "Oh… sorry, duck sauce."
She squinted. "What did you call me?"
Oh, crap. He forgot how and why he developed that pet name for his sister, but knew he had used it since they were very young.
He scratched behind his ear. "Huh? Nothin' just… um…"
She sighed. "Great, you're plastered again. Please be careful not to say anything that—"
"I won't, and I didn't. Hadn't talked to none of them Sipsey fuckers. I'm fixin' to go pass out anyway." He glanced down and noticed her blue, long-sleeved shirt. "Wow, that's a nice color."
She cracked a smile. "And they say men don't notice things about a woman's wardrobe."
"And your hair… it's…" Hers was a shade or two lighter than Marion's, but stopped just past her shoulders and created a similar contrast against her shirt as in his dream. "Oh…" Theresa wore a loose, short, black skirt. Marion hated pants and almost exclusively wore short skirts unless it was too cold.
Martin reached out to touch her shoulder and Theresa edged back, her wide eyes boring into his.
That's Theresa you're pawing at, you moron.
He brought his hand back. "Oh… god, I am wasted."
She nodded. "Uh-huh. Try not to sprain your ankle or step in a snare on the way to your room."
He laughed. "Aw, you're—you're so funny, duck sauce."
Damnit.
"Right… bye," she said, hastening past him.
A stab of grief hit him as he was left alone. Someone else walked past him, a middle-aged male Sipsean whose name he never learned. The man gave him a cross look as he went, as had many residents during his trek back to his quarters.
Fucking assholes, judging me like they have the right…
Continuing back to Gareth's room, he stopped and stood in the hallway and attempted to recall which room was Gareth's. He concluded it was the one to his right and intended to tap on the door with his knuckles, yet ending up repeatedly smacking both hands against it. No reply. Rotating the knob, he pushed it open and staggered inside.
It was Gareth's room, right? Did his have the beige carpet? The room was organized meticulously. Therefore, it had to be his.
He shut the door behind him and kicked off his shoes, then tried to place them in a neat row by the door. Gareth would be bothered if he left them strewn about.
Failing to align them just right, Martin mumbled, "Guy's fuckin' got me pussywhipped, fixin' my damn shoes for him." He turned and fell to the bed, shutting his eyes. "High-maintenance tight-ass."
After beginning to doze off, the opening door broke through his haze and his eyes fluttered open halfway.
"Theresa said you were wasted and she was right," Gareth's said, shutting the door behind him.
"Come here, baby," Martin urged, giving a come-hither motion. "Rub me all over with those eight fingers." The man was still adept with his remaining digits. Though the new metal piece he wore over the stubs was a tad chilly when brushing against sensitive skin.
"Nah, I usually prefer it when the other guy can get it all the way up."
Martin's eyes flew all the way open and he bolted up. "Hey! I'm fine, I can get it all the way up."
Gareth grinned, made his way to the bed, and perched on the edge beside him. "It's so funny. You drive me absolutely insane. Always have. Just keeps changing as to in what way."
"Oh yeah, you keep sayin' things like that." He gripped Gareth by the shoulders and pulled him in, planting a zealous kiss on his mouth.
He pushed his hands away and leaned back, licking his lips. "You taste like whiskey. I hate whiskey. Drives me insane in the bad way."
Martin made a sound of discontent. "Fuckin' chirst you're a picky ass motherfucker."
He sighed. "Tomorrow, alright? Now please get the hell out of my room. Your hangover's going to be one for the ages and I don't want to have to kick your liquor-soaked self out of my bed afterwards."
He glowered. "You know what? I don't even wanna fuck you anymore. Hurtin' my feelin's and shit."
Gareth snickered and Martin rose his feet, trudging for the door when he added, "And take your shoes."
Martin pushed open the front doors of the country church and headed down the aisle. The place looked identical to the one where they confronted Rick and his group. Yet it was a different building, occupying a separate space in time.
Marion stood at the end of the aisle with her hands in what looked like a metal dish of some sort.
"Marion?" Martin called, quickening his pace. When he made it to, her hands rested in the water-filled dish holding her baby under. "What the fuck are you doing!?" he demanded, plunging his hands in the tub.
"No, it's okay!" Marion assured him, nudging him back with her shoulder. "He's a believer. I heard him say it. A miracle child." She smiled and stared into the water.
"He can't talk, he's a week old! You're gonna kill him!" He shoved her aside and she fell to the floor with pained yelp. He yanked the baby from the water held its limp body in his arms. "How do you do CPR on a baby…?"
Marion climbed to her feet and rushed back over. "What happened!?"
"What happened is you killed him! You crazy fucking bitch, you killed him!"
Horror washed over her face. "No, no, no, no he told me he was ready to be one with god. He accepted." She gasped and gazed at her child's stilled body. "He's in heaven now."
He dropped the body back in the tub with a splash, wetting his shirt. "He's not in heaven, he's fucking dead! And you get to stick a knife in his head and bury him! I ain't helpin' with this!" He shoved her again, harder than before, and she toppled backward, her head smacking against the step up to the altar. She lay motionless.
His hand gripped the revolver in his belt. If she were dead, he needed to get her before she turned—the kid too. Though even if she were alive he figured the time was right to send a bullet through her head anyway, had been for a while. He was sick of her. Sick of her illness, sick of the chain she had around his neck.
Drawing his gun, he aimed and fired into her head, making her body jerk.
Finally free.
Nightmares were always better. They showed him the truth—the array of realities that could come to pass. Marion drowning her child out of a delusion that it spoke and wished to be baptized had been a genuine possibility. One of many he considered while watching her go about the camp three months pregnant with no one but him knowing. Many scenarios ended with him killing her. Better he did it early and out of compassion rather than malice.
A/N: I've always loved writing Martin in contrast to the others because while they have layer after layer, Martin's 90 percent selfish asshole and that's so fun to write. That being said, I thought it was time to give him a part that's actually really humanizing (but dark) and give light to the other 10 percent.