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Summary
When it was still warm and tolerable, when he found himself hovering on the edge of sleep because he’d done nothing but lay in his bed all night, staring at the ceiling, thinking of hospital beds and cheap headstones and the smell of the old vodka spilled in his carpet - he poured himself a cup.
The machine was old, yes, but functional. And with the way his eyes drooped, the exhaustion that permeated his bones no matter how much he slept, it didn’t seem like it could hurt. So when Peter would make a pot, Martin would begrudgingly pour himself a cup (never one for Peter), leave away the adornments that made it tolerable, and sip on it until it grew too sour and tepid to stomach. He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of tea since Jon got hu— since the Unknowing, and the caffeine was necessary for the work Peter wanted him to do.
The discomfort was something a little extra, just for him.
(He wondered, idly, how some people existed without the little dashes of pain to ground them.)Series
- Part 1 of taste, bitter, on a guilty tongue