The Whistling Kettle

Patience

"Your mother," He began, his voice only slightly muffled by the thick glass between them, "Tell me about her, Agent Jones."

"I don't think that's an appropriate topic of conversation, doctor."

"Surely there's no harm in sharing some information with me? After all, information is what you hope to gain today; I see no reason as to why I may not be granted the same luxury as you."

Alfred paused, his glasses pushing higher up his face as he took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose, before he looked into the cell in front of him. He'd been here an hour now, and had only looked up twice. There was no need to keep looking- Dr. Kirkland haven't moved from his spot in the center of the floor. He had been in the same place since the agent had walked in: legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap as he sat with a straight spine and unnerving emerald gaze. A whole hour had passed, and he hadn't moved an inch from his concrete seat.

"What would you like to know, doctor?"

"What did she like to eat?" He asked, his eyes unmoving from the officer behind the glass, even though his gaze was not met most of the time, "Have you any recollection of her diet- a favorite meal, favorite food?"

"What are you-"

"Please, Alfred."

Said man sighed, tapping his pen on the clipboard in his lap. He hadn't thought of it in a long time, he hadn't needed to recall the details for many years now. The last time he'd thought of such things was the last Mother's Day he'd ever celebrated.

"She liked cheesecake," Alfred recalled, having to search a little deeper into his memory for this fact, "It was her favorite. Her mother had always made it for her, ever since she was little."

"And she made this for you, too, did she not?"

"She did," Alfred nodded, "I didn't take as much liking to it as she had, but she made it all the same."

There was a silence again, and Alfred glanced at the doctor for just the fourth time in the past hour and seven minutes. He was no longer peering at him beyond the glass, instead his intelligent gaze was caught by the camera that monitored their every move.

"Was she taller than your father?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your mother. How tall was she?"

Alfred blinked, looking on in slight confusion at the psychologist that sat in the cell before him.

"She was tall for a women, I guess. 6'0."

Dr. Arthur Kirkland did not reply to this. Instead he kept his eyes on the camera as though he was looking into the very souls of the men who sat in the office a corridor away and kept their eyes to the screen that provided them with the present image of the two. Alfred looked at him, taking in the sight of his clean kept prison uniform and his neatly brushed hair. His cell was neat, too, neater than any of the other's that were in this wing. Alfred hadn't ever seen a prisoner keep such an organized writing space. The agent picked up his pen at this thought, and began to write at his paper again. From the corner of his eye, he could see that he had once again captured the doctor's full attention, but he did not care to return the gaze that bore into his front.

The silence was usual now, more expected than it was uncomfortable. Their moments of discomfort and awkwardness were scarce, as though they had silently decided that they preferred the tension to linger in the air rather than unnerving quiet. No, Alfred was not at ease with the murderer before him, but he knew the fear that he felt was unjustified. The criminal had never said so out loud, but Alfred knew that harm would never come to his person by means of the doctor's own doing. It was odd, and it put an uncomfortable ripple in his stomach, but he managed to find just a fragment of calmness knowing that Arthur would never even consider spilling his blood.

"Were you the elder twin?"

The question brought a hault to his writing, and Alfred was quick to turn his attention to the doctor before him. His eyes were met with an equally interested stare, yet those emeralds held an amusement that Alfred's did not.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Begging does not flatter you," Arthur retorted, his lips seeming to dance on the possibility of smiling, lingering on that thin line between pursed and grinning, "Once more- were you the elder twin?"

"How did you-"

"Unimportant." The doctor cut in quickly, "Your answer, please."

"I-I-" Alfred found that his throat had swelled inside, and it felt as though a rock had been shoved down his mouth. How had he known he was a twin? He hadn't ever said anything to him, nor to anyone else he worked with; there was no one in the facility who would have held that information. "I...Im older."

"I was correct, then."

Alfred fell silent again, letting the lack of words hang in the air as he felt each and every drop of sweat run down his temple.

"I'm sure he was just as handsome." The doctor said, lips finally pushing to that smile they had obviously been contemplating on for so long, "I'm sure I'd like two of you just as much as I like just the one."

Alfred was feeling rather sick.