[ it's a sudden case of deja vu, for something that he thought he'd learned his lesson on, now avoiding his typical naps in the nude so that a knock at the door doesn't result in some young girl getting an eyeful of whatever he happens to be sporting down below from his fresh dozing.
but right now, his hands aren't at the door, simply caught in the towel now slowly sliding off from his head as he stares at marta's stunned gaze, still more confused than ever when she spins around and accuses him of bringing about this incident. ]
What the hell — I —
[ clutching tighter at the towel, he foregoes trying to dry himself off, simply bringing it around his waist and tying it at his hip to at least cover up the essentials of what's likely making her nervous all of a sudden, even if he really thinks he's not the one who should be apologetic and accommodating right now. ]
I never called you. I was in the shower. When the fuck would I've done that?
[ she can't hear much movement behind her, a fact she feels conflicted about. on the one hand, he isn't getting any closer — good. on the other, shouldn't he at least try getting dressed? the sound squeezed out from behind her hands is strangled, as if pained. ]
Don't you swear at me, cabrón, you think I would've come in here on my own otherwise??
[ there's really no reason for her voice to grow as loud as it does, but somehow it comforts her to be able to fill the gaping expanse of skin — of space! space! — between them with volume. like him, she is not about to let him pin this incident on her. ]
[ the fact that he's never heard her this fired up about something before makes it telling that she's being serious about her intentions in coming here, even if he's still plenty confused as to why she would assume he'd be calling her over here in the first place.
putting the towel over himself seems to be satisfactory enough in his mind to be considered "covered up", so he doesn't scramble to put on any clothes, especially since he's technically still damp across his skin. ]
Dying? What — ? Look at me. Does it look like I'm dying!?
[ maybe not a good time to be telling her to look at him, but even so, he's arms out in preparation anyway in case she does happen to turn, just to prove he's still in one piece. ]
[ we'll say it's the inherently subservient side of her, the one that aims to please and avoid confrontation, that has her sliding her hands down and chancing a look over her shoulder — there's certainly no other reason anyone here can think of that would prompt her to look. none at all. ]
I — guess not... but.
[ but? but what? what can she insist on that she can't see for herself right here, in front of her very own eyes, a perfectly fine (wet) body, the picture of health (wet wet wet wet—)
she flings a hand up, finger right in his face, something both accusatory and warding off. ]
I'm not crazy, okay? I know what I heard. Read. It was that — that stupid mind text thing!
[ he's almost surprised that she does look, with how flustered she seems to be about (honestly a more reasonable reaction than the other woman who'd caught him in a similar state, their eyes doing a great deal of more shameless lingering). but he's trying to prove a point here, which is that the wounds on his body are all (mostly) healed up and serving nothing life-threatening, even if he does technically have the one at his back providing a faint issue, albeit a forgotten one with the current situation.
when she steps back up to him with that pointed finger, it's almost like a challenge that he feels the need to instinctively fight back on, mouth already opening to argue —
but he staggers with mention of the stupid mind text thing, as he realizes suddenly.
his shoulders slump a bit, brows still tight and knit even as the gears in his head turn. ]
The ... mind text thing. You heard me when I — [ he's speaking aloud at this point, his famed envoy intuition finally doing its job in pointing out the obvious to this little mystery, lips pursing as he struggles between remaining firm and feeling sheepish about the realization of his fault. ] I guess I might have ... maybe been thinking of you in there. Must've called out to you.
[ her eyes narrow at that first sign of defeat. it isn't a flat out surrender yet, not with the way his lips purse and his jaw clenches, but she can see it there, working its way to the surface. ]
Maybe thinking of me, [ she repeats in a tone so dry it could have spared kovacs any further toweling (not that his previous toweling had done much of anything—), ] in there. [ she punctuates her words with a pointed look to the bathroom door, still cracked open enough that some steam wafts through.
maybe she's been reading too many romance novels lately, but this isn't usually the way things go when someone confesses to having thought about you in the shower.
she drops her hand, but it's only so she can ball it to a fist at her side. now it's her turn to clench her jaw, and maybe that's why when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a warning. ]
[ as soon as the words are out, there's an awareness of how it might sound without the proper context, something that gets confirmed by the shift of her body language, the way she tenses up to signal that he'd really put his foot in his mouth.
rather than scramble to correct himself though, since he's never one to desperately cave in his faults towards fixing his mistakes, he lets the phrasing linger a bit, keeping his face (mostly) composed as he watches the clench of her jaw, the tightness that makes his own grip a bit as he clenches his teeth behind closed lips once he begins to consider his words.
with a sigh, he leans in towards her, maintaining his calm eye contact with her stern gaze. ]
I was thinking — [ he lets the words float for a moment, like he's almost testing to see where her thoughts drift, a fascination in the quick evolution of her responses, from concern to embarrassment, to something that borders an almost sheepish threat. ] That my wound opened up and I might've needed a nurse to take a look. [ his lips curve into a smirk, the smugness hardly a secret. ] Guess my favorite one came to mind.
[ she barely moves as he closes in on her, his lion to her lamb, but for marta the fact she doesn't shrink away is strength in itself. nevermind that the muscle along her jaw twitches, nevermind that her throat struggles around a swallow as he purposefully tries to lead her guilty mind to its guillotine.
when he smirks and shatters all pretenses, marta isn't surprised. but she's not nearly skilled enough to hide the flicker of — something — flutter through her expression, before she's gritting her teeth around a grimace in the wake of it. ]
Pretty sure I'm the only one.
[ then she's shoving a hand in his face to assert dominance get some of her personal space back. there's no time for — this, whatever this is. he may not be dying, but her coming here out of concern hadn't been completely off, so she'll slide back to the areas she's more familiar with.
[ it's a mix of something between a dare and his own reflex in setting up his guards, in resisting the admittance to his own simple oversight. but it's also in part a study, like he's always prepared to observed, to note the way people react and respond, like he simply isn't done until he has a read on everyone's corners, answers often held in the ones not often easily perceived.
a slightly cruel test here maybe, but he doesn't intend to play it too dangerously, especially when she seems to do well in knocking down his teases. even when she presses him back, he maintains his smirk, feet moving backwards a few steps before placing his hands on his hips to watch her grip that more assertive nature.
he gives her a pensive stare for a moment, brow raised like he can't quite decipher why she's so panicked. then again, modesty about the body isn't so commonplace where he comes from. ]
This coming from the woman who stripped me down while I was unconscious. [ he gives a light roll of his eyes, but sinks his shoulder, giving in to the request. ] Thought you were a professional in the medical field. You always get this weird when people have their clothes off when they're awake?
[ when he turns around and away from her, he gives a tug to the towel to toss carelessly on the bed, moving in to reach for a pair of pants laying there beside it. not that he gives much warning for it, so it's entirely up to her whether she's fast enough to steer her eyes away. ]
at least, that's what marta means to say, or some flustered equivalent of, but whatever words her indignation had conjured up promptly get extinguished in her throat like a bucket of water to flames. the idea of defending herself and refuting against his accusatory tone doesn't seem quite so important when she's suddenly made to scramble to avert her eyes again and—
wait. wait.
he's right though. begrudging as she is to even silently admit it, he is right. she's a goddamn professional (twice over!), she's seen plenty of naked bodies before. nevermind context at the moment. the second he turns around, he's showing his wound again, and that, above all else, has to take priority.
so she grits her jaw, keeps her eyes levelled to the laceration at his back, and takes a few steps forward to give herself a better look.
(she takes a deep, steadying breath too. it's quiet, but the dampness on his skin might feel a little extra cooled for a second.) ]
The good news is your wound is mostly healed up, despite the bleeding. Your stitches are fine to come off today.
[ tone even. calm. professional. ]
The bad news is it's a little swollen. Possibly infected. I hope you can sleep on your stomach.
[ there's a certain kind of modesty that he lacks when it comes to his skin, and with the way he's been caught like this more than a handful of times in the last few months already, it's almost become a running joke that's more tiring than entertaining — at least until her reaction offered up a different kind of surprise.
unfortunately, once he turns around, he can't observe more of her reaction, but at least he's accommodating her request, yanking his pants off of the bed to pull them up over his legs. he can hear her behind him, half-expecting that she may be walking up to smack him one, but instead, she seems to have taken his words about professionalism, apparently jumping right into nurse-mode.
with his face turned away, he wears a brief private smirk — a result of her ongoing surprises tonight — securing the button at the front of his pants before peering back over his shoulder. ]
Usually like landing on my back on a bed, but I can switch it up. [ she can take that however she likes, of course.
he tries to give a roll of his shoulder, feeling that slight ache where the wound rubs against the joint. ] Would you believe me if I told you I didn't purposely try to fuck it up again?
[ while marta certainly finds herself pondering the ethical ramifications of slapping a hand over an already injured person's back (especially when he offers up that colorful comment), she ultimately opts to keep her hands to herself. though she does fold her arms under her bust just to be safe. ]
Does it really matter what I think?
[ ...well. does it? from the way she talks, it's clear her opinion is not often something she's asked for. ]
If you didn't even notice it reopening, it must've happened while you were sleeping.
[ the previous evening was one of the times he hadn't spent it in the infirmary — a habit she still hasn't quite figured out, but it's obvious enough he's trying to avoid something (or someone) in doing so. so it's purely speculation at this point, and it probably wouldn't matter much what his answer is, and yet she feels compelled to ask anyway. ]
[ maybe it doesn't necessarily matter what she thinks in the context that he's bound to just do whatever he sees fit anyway, no matters who's encouraging or discouraging it, but it doesn't make him any less curious to learn how her thoughts steer, like it's just instinctive to want to know the way people tick, just as he's very easily learning the kind of things that annoy her.
but he does at least try to ponder when the wound might have opened, knowing that he hasn't exactly been too active as of late, neither in training nor ... well, his bed. but her guess sounds as good as any, and he knows that his return to his bed last night had resulted in the additional return of his restlessness, jolting awake when certain images had returned to his mind.
he sighs to her question, standing still with his back turned for a moment longer, like he indulges in its advantages, shielding away the subtle expressions in his eyes, his lips, as he recalls details from within his sleep, memories resurfacing themselves as they often do. ]
We all get 'em, right?
[ his answer speaks without weight, like it can be shrugged quite easily off of his shoulder when he turns to sit on his bed, eyes peering up at her. ]
Dreamt I was stuck in one of those ... Pride and Prejudice houses, all stuffy with people just spinning around the room cause they got nothing better to do. Was fighting for my life in there.
[ she isn't privy to any of his expressions right now, but she doubts he would have shown much anyway were he turned around. she only has the set of his shoulders to work off of, but who can say if the tension there is due to the answer to her question, or the fact that she even asked at all.
when he offers even that much of a response, marta is surprised. but whatever words of encouragement or sympathy fizzle out like a doused flame when he finally fixes her with a look, and her own expression flattens out into something equal parts exasperated and resigned. ]
That must've been real terrible for you, [ she says around an overly sympathetic sigh. she lifts a had to her throat, covering the majority of it. ] Wearing a whole collar up to here. [ because apparently he's allergic to clothes.
her hand drops to her lip, her brows rise. ]
Will you be able to stay out of trouble while I go get my kit?
[ he could be honest about his dreams, since it likely wouldn't be the first she might have noticed he's had them, remembering how he'd jolted awake in that hospital bed the first night, finding her sitting in a chair beside him with a book on her lap. she hadn't asked him then, and so the thought rises that he could simply tell it to her now, to share the weight of what stirs him enough to open his wounds in the night.
because he thinks of what he'd decided there on that rock in the sunlight room, as they burned their dolls carrying the past, how he'd wrote that poem with the thought that she could be a willing friend.
but he's reminded the difficulty that comes with baring it all, the vulnerability, the transfer of weight, and he knows she's the type of person who'd take it, who'd comfort him through it, because she's already shown that selfless good will of hers. and somehow it doesn't seem fair. she shouldn't have to be responsible for his demons.
so he just smirks in light of her words, throwing himself full into the joke, because it's always easier than reality. peering around, he blows a breath, shrugging his shoulders. ]
Think I can stay on good behavior. Promise to even keep my pants on, just for you.
[ as curious as marta can be at times (as curious as she is about him specifically), she isn't one to really pry, preferring to think that the less she asks others, the less she'll be asked in turn. it's one of a handful of survival tactics that's worked out well for her in the past, and though she doesn't have as many reasons to play it close to her chest here among this crew, away from the laws that threaten to tear her family apart, old habits die hard... and there doesn't feel like much point in talking about things that would ultimately just wind up being nothing more than a sob story. there isn't anything anyone here can do about the problems she's still got to face back in her world; it wouldn't be very fair to anyone to act like they could.
of course this doesn't stop her from offering an ear to anyone who might need or want it, but if he doesn't want to talk about it, then maybe he's of the same mind. ]
I'll believe it when I see it.
[ or rather, when she doesn't see it.
but, this is good. a brief little breather to tilt her world back onto its axis. she counts the steps it takes from his room to the infirmary and back so that by the time she's entering his space again, her mind is a little clearer. ]
[ despite all his teasing, kovacs really isn't so dead set on tormenting her, even if it's hard to resist it when it comes easy, maintaining a hint of the smugness on his lips up until she leaves the room to get what she needs. once she's out of sight, any amusement falls away from his face, like the quiet emptiness of the room is always enough to transform him, like the facade of his weightlessness has no need to be present.
he sighs, letting it all go, feeling the lingering ache at his back, at where the wound had healed before his dreams had gotten the best of him. for a while, they hadn't been present at all, easier to quiet away when there's an additional warmth at his side, when a body curls against him like a shield from the terrors, but he's returned to sleeping on his own, to being unguarded in the night to the taunting nightmares of his memories.
when he and marta had burned the dolls, he'd known it was just a gesture, just a performance, and it was only when she'd adjusted her own to mirror the imperfections of his that he'd even considered putting a bit of his hope into the idea — that maybe it could actually burn away the weight of the past.
he's not surprised he was wrong.
carefully, he lowers his body to rest on his side, back faced to the wall as his eyes still drift to peer around the empty room. slowly, they close, just gradually flutters that open and close slowly before he doesn't even realize when they shut completely, sleepless nights getting the past of him as he quietly falls into a light slumber. ]
[ marta doesn't consider how long she might have been gone until she walks back into a silent room, the eerie peace such a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions she'd left with, that for a moment she wonders if each step had taken years, not seconds. everything else in the room is the same as she'd left it, save for the man now dozing quietly on his side. she can tell he isn't faking it, either, the deep lines on his face smoothed out in a way that doesn't seem calculated or forced, breaths even and deep.
slowly she enters further into the room, setting her medical kit down on a nearby table. she briefly considers just coming back another time, leaving him to this momentary peace he'd found for himself. but if there's anything she knows about him, it's that his peaces never seem to last for very long. in which case...
her sigh is quiet as she takes a seat on an empty spot along his bed, lacing her fingers together and tucking her hand between her knees. instead of steps this time she counts the steady rise fall of his chest. breath in, breath out. one, two, one, two. ]
[ for a while, it's quiet, rarity in the silence and the serenity that's all a facade for what's really there, for the war that lives inside. the fall of ash that eventually showers over his body again, it always does, as if any distance he finds away from it will never be enough. he only wonders who long it'll take to cover him up too, burying him with the rest of the bodies at stronghold, the last of the envoys falling into his fated grave.
he closes his eyes, letting it fall against the lids, until he can't even see the faint glow of the light from beyond them.
but then he can feel the light shift of mattress, a slight weight sitting close to his side and he exhales a breath, the sigh blowing away some of the ash from his face. of course she's here, like she's been the only one who could reach in and pull him out, and even with eyes still closed, he reaches out, fingers brushing to her thigh, knuckles giving a lazy graze, a voiceless nudge for her to curl into bed with him, to give him someplace out of the ash to rest his head. ]
Clara — [ he whispers her name like a sigh, like relief, that she'd somehow come back to him even after all he'd said to her.
when his eyes blink open, there's no ash, no hazy gaze of gray, his fingers brushing against a different thigh, the blur shifting away to find a different woman sitting upon his bed. it's not the first time he's woken up to find her there (find her making space in an empty room) but somehow he's still surprised, even if he can remember why she'd come here in the first place.
he curls his fingers inward to his palm, reeling his hand back slowly as he swallows, avoiding any attention to the gesture or the name that left his lips. ] ... hey. You're back.
[ one, two, one, two. the counting was like a lullaby, making heavy marta's eyelids in a way no story has since her arrival on this station. perhaps she'd already been half-dozing when he had begun to reach out, for she doesn't realize until those knuckles brush against her thigh, pulling her back to the present.
there's less than a handful of seconds between that touch and the sighing of that name, but for the duration of them it had seemed like a lifetime — and yet still not nearly long enough to even begin to decipher her emotions in that time.
when his eyes fix on her, seeing her, she looks away as if to grant him the privacy she couldn't just a few moments prior. ]
Where else would I be? You called me, remember?
[ he had called, needing her (or so it'd seemed) — of course she'd answer. it's as simple as that.
reaching for her kit, she motions for him to turn with her free hand. ]
[ there's a guilt in the moment, either from muttering another name after he had apparently called her in for her help, or for the fact that he'd let such a private honesty slip from his lips and be so exposed, like he'd let her in on a secret he hadn't been prepared to spill. more than likely, it's something of both, a swirl of awkwardness that carries more weight than any extended moment he'd stood in front of her naked from head to toe.
he's glad for the distraction when she suggests him to turn around, only taking a moment to nod before he spins his body to rest on his belly, turning his head to rest his cheek against the pillow, facing to the wall rather than towards her, like it could offer a moment to compose himself again. ]
Guess I passed out. You know how it goes — all these girls always walking in on me. Really ruins the sleep cycle.
[ easier to go back to joking, even if there isn't the same edge of playfulness as there had been earlier in his bantering teases. ]
[ on his stomach like he is, she's left to take a seat in the space carved out on the bed by his torso, hovering just close enough to begin the careful work of cleaning up and removing those stitches. the wound is red and angry, not unlike the first time she'd seen it, but it's nothing she's sure some antibiotic cream won't take care of in due time. overall it's an issue far easier to tackle than the other one at hand, glaring in the way it isn't something visible or tangible, but still just as annoyingly present in the small space between them.
the problem is, marta's certain this isn't something for her to address. she had always suspected something had happened to him the night of christmas; how else to explain his complete shift in demeanor from that morning over their game of go to the late evening as he stumbled into the silent infirmary? she had had her theories, in the few moments she allowed herself to ponder over someone else's problems (problems he clearly didn't want to discuss) but never had she thought that at the crux of it would be a woman. one of their own, even. ]
Maybe next time consider locking the door.
[ but he slips back into that sardonic wit like a comfortable sweater, and marta knows any window of opportunity she had to ask about it has closed. she's curious, but she doesn't pry, so she keeps working and working and working on the one pain of his she knows how to treat. ]
[ even without looking at her, he can feel the way she eases into the steps of tending his wound like an old routine, like her hands are capable of moving all on their own, with ease and carefulness. it's just grazes of her fingertips at his back as she cleans him up but it's almost relaxing, especially when he lays down like this, already having slumbered easily just minutes ago.
but he isn't falling asleep this time, not with the nagging press in his mind over the name he'd uttered out loud, one that she doesn't seem to be asking about, even if he has a feeling she's likely casting her own thoughts and assumptions about it silently in her own mind. ]
Then what happens when I really am lying on my shower floor dying and I need you to rush in to save me?
[ not actually a likely scenario, he assumes, but it's another attempt to keep playing with the dangling string of sarcasm he still has left in the conversation.
but a sigh leaves his lips, heavy that he almost feels his body sinking against the mattress, and maybe it's in that, with his eyes safe away from her gaze that he almost feels compelled to be honest — not about clara; he doubts he could really choke out anything about his relationship with her, because he knows it comes paired with the weight of the deal he's made, something that he doesn't have any intention on bringing up to anyone. but maybe he could at least answer what she did ask about. ]
The ... day the Envoys died — [ he'd told her about it. on new years day. ] I still dream about it. Sometimes even when I'm awake. I can ... still see the ash from the explosions, falling over me like snow. I'd feel it on my skin, inhale it like it's still burning. And I just ... I lose myself in it. Like I'm back there and I ... I wait for it to bury me with the rest of them.
[ even now, his mouth feels dry, and he runs his tongue across his lips to wet them. ]
When I woke up from a long sleep a few months ago, it was supposed to be a temporary side effect — disorientation, visual and auditory hallucinations, low-grade amnesia. And it stopped for a while, but ... they came back recently. The nightmares. Sometimes it's harder to pull out. Last night, I had to really shake out of it. Must've ripped the stitches.
[ the quiet that follows his heavy sigh feels finite, and so she doesn't dare to ruin it with a sardonic response, content instead to let her work speak for her. she doesn't expect to hear him speak again, let alone in such a soul-baring way.
she keeps quiet, and yet her hands stutter, faltering only once as he speaks a truth so close to home she wonders if part of his envoy skills isn't seeing right through her. when silence settles between them again, she finds it isn't too difficult to think of what to say. ]
I think the worst thing about nightmares is that each time you have them, it always feels like the first time.
[ cruel enough for a mind to remind you of your pain, but to make you relive it each time like tearing open a new wound on flesh already so littered with barely-healed scars... marta knows how toxic guilt can be. how feeling like being the one to survive is meant to be a curse to carry the memory of those who left before you — for you — like an emptiness that just won't fill.
how many nights has she spent waking up to the memory of harlan's soulless eyes staring back at her? how many more has kovacs had remember so many more?
work done, she sits back a bit to give him some room. still, she has to keep busy, works on cleaning up and putting things away so it doesn't feel like she's reaching in, tearing out her own haphazard stitches to speak of a memory she won't let herself forget. ]
Before I came here... I lost someone too. [ the corner of her lips twitch, even as her vision blurs. ] A dear friend.
[ she looks up from her hands, follows the line of his spine up to the back of his head. she wonders what his expression looks like now. if it's in any way a mirror of hers. ]
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no subject
but right now, his hands aren't at the door, simply caught in the towel now slowly sliding off from his head as he stares at marta's stunned gaze, still more confused than ever when she spins around and accuses him of bringing about this incident. ]
What the hell — I —
[ clutching tighter at the towel, he foregoes trying to dry himself off, simply bringing it around his waist and tying it at his hip to at least cover up the essentials of what's likely making her nervous all of a sudden, even if he really thinks he's not the one who should be apologetic and accommodating right now. ]
I never called you. I was in the shower. When the fuck would I've done that?
no subject
Don't you swear at me, cabrón, you think I would've come in here on my own otherwise??
[ there's really no reason for her voice to grow as loud as it does, but somehow it comforts her to be able to fill the gaping expanse of skin — of space! space! — between them with volume. like him, she is not about to let him pin this incident on her. ]
Coño, you said you were dying!
no subject
putting the towel over himself seems to be satisfactory enough in his mind to be considered "covered up", so he doesn't scramble to put on any clothes, especially since he's technically still damp across his skin. ]
Dying? What — ? Look at me. Does it look like I'm dying!?
[ maybe not a good time to be telling her to look at him, but even so, he's arms out in preparation anyway in case she does happen to turn, just to prove he's still in one piece. ]
Where the hell you'd hear that?
no subject
I — guess not... but.
[ but? but what? what can she insist on that she can't see for herself right here, in front of her very own eyes, a perfectly fine (wet) body, the picture of health (wet wet wet wet—)
she flings a hand up, finger right in his face, something both accusatory and warding off. ]
I'm not crazy, okay? I know what I heard. Read. It was that — that stupid mind text thing!
no subject
when she steps back up to him with that pointed finger, it's almost like a challenge that he feels the need to instinctively fight back on, mouth already opening to argue —
but he staggers with mention of the stupid mind text thing, as he realizes suddenly.
his shoulders slump a bit, brows still tight and knit even as the gears in his head turn. ]
The ... mind text thing. You heard me when I — [ he's speaking aloud at this point, his famed envoy intuition finally doing its job in pointing out the obvious to this little mystery, lips pursing as he struggles between remaining firm and feeling sheepish about the realization of his fault. ] I guess I might have ... maybe been thinking of you in there. Must've called out to you.
no subject
Maybe thinking of me, [ she repeats in a tone so dry it could have spared kovacs any further toweling (not that his previous toweling had done much of anything—), ] in there. [ she punctuates her words with a pointed look to the bathroom door, still cracked open enough that some steam wafts through.
maybe she's been reading too many romance novels lately, but this isn't usually the way things go when someone confesses to having thought about you in the shower.
she drops her hand, but it's only so she can ball it to a fist at her side. now it's her turn to clench her jaw, and maybe that's why when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a warning. ]
What else did you think about?
no subject
rather than scramble to correct himself though, since he's never one to desperately cave in his faults towards fixing his mistakes, he lets the phrasing linger a bit, keeping his face (mostly) composed as he watches the clench of her jaw, the tightness that makes his own grip a bit as he clenches his teeth behind closed lips once he begins to consider his words.
with a sigh, he leans in towards her, maintaining his calm eye contact with her stern gaze. ]
I was thinking — [ he lets the words float for a moment, like he's almost testing to see where her thoughts drift, a fascination in the quick evolution of her responses, from concern to embarrassment, to something that borders an almost sheepish threat. ] That my wound opened up and I might've needed a nurse to take a look. [ his lips curve into a smirk, the smugness hardly a secret. ] Guess my favorite one came to mind.
no subject
when he smirks and shatters all pretenses, marta isn't surprised. but she's not nearly skilled enough to hide the flicker of — something — flutter through her expression, before she's gritting her teeth around a grimace in the wake of it. ]
Pretty sure I'm the only one.
[ then she's shoving a hand in his face to
assert dominanceget some of her personal space back. there's no time for — this, whatever this is. he may not be dying, but her coming here out of concern hadn't been completely off, so she'll slide back to the areas she's more familiar with.she gestures towards his bed. ]
Show me.
[ wait. ]
Your back.
[ wait. ]
And put some pants on, por dios!
no subject
a slightly cruel test here maybe, but he doesn't intend to play it too dangerously, especially when she seems to do well in knocking down his teases. even when she presses him back, he maintains his smirk, feet moving backwards a few steps before placing his hands on his hips to watch her grip that more assertive nature.
he gives her a pensive stare for a moment, brow raised like he can't quite decipher why she's so panicked. then again, modesty about the body isn't so commonplace where he comes from. ]
This coming from the woman who stripped me down while I was unconscious. [ he gives a light roll of his eyes, but sinks his shoulder, giving in to the request. ] Thought you were a professional in the medical field. You always get this weird when people have their clothes off when they're awake?
[ when he turns around and away from her, he gives a tug to the towel to toss carelessly on the bed, moving in to reach for a pair of pants laying there beside it. not that he gives much warning for it, so it's entirely up to her whether she's fast enough to steer her eyes away. ]
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at least, that's what marta means to say, or some flustered equivalent of, but whatever words her indignation had conjured up promptly get extinguished in her throat like a bucket of water to flames. the idea of defending herself and refuting against his accusatory tone doesn't seem quite so important when she's suddenly made to scramble to avert her eyes again and—
wait. wait.
he's right though. begrudging as she is to even silently admit it, he is right. she's a goddamn professional (twice over!), she's seen plenty of naked bodies before. nevermind context at the moment. the second he turns around, he's showing his wound again, and that, above all else, has to take priority.
so she grits her jaw, keeps her eyes levelled to the laceration at his back, and takes a few steps forward to give herself a better look.
(she takes a deep, steadying breath too. it's quiet, but the dampness on his skin might feel a little extra cooled for a second.) ]
The good news is your wound is mostly healed up, despite the bleeding. Your stitches are fine to come off today.
[ tone even. calm. professional. ]
The bad news is it's a little swollen. Possibly infected. I hope you can sleep on your stomach.
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unfortunately, once he turns around, he can't observe more of her reaction, but at least he's accommodating her request, yanking his pants off of the bed to pull them up over his legs. he can hear her behind him, half-expecting that she may be walking up to smack him one, but instead, she seems to have taken his words about professionalism, apparently jumping right into nurse-mode.
with his face turned away, he wears a brief private smirk — a result of her ongoing surprises tonight — securing the button at the front of his pants before peering back over his shoulder. ]
Usually like landing on my back on a bed, but I can switch it up. [ she can take that however she likes, of course.
he tries to give a roll of his shoulder, feeling that slight ache where the wound rubs against the joint. ] Would you believe me if I told you I didn't purposely try to fuck it up again?
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Does it really matter what I think?
[ ...well. does it? from the way she talks, it's clear her opinion is not often something she's asked for. ]
If you didn't even notice it reopening, it must've happened while you were sleeping.
[ the previous evening was one of the times he hadn't spent it in the infirmary — a habit she still hasn't quite figured out, but it's obvious enough he's trying to avoid something (or someone) in doing so. so it's purely speculation at this point, and it probably wouldn't matter much what his answer is, and yet she feels compelled to ask anyway. ]
...Nightmares?
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but he does at least try to ponder when the wound might have opened, knowing that he hasn't exactly been too active as of late, neither in training nor ... well, his bed. but her guess sounds as good as any, and he knows that his return to his bed last night had resulted in the additional return of his restlessness, jolting awake when certain images had returned to his mind.
he sighs to her question, standing still with his back turned for a moment longer, like he indulges in its advantages, shielding away the subtle expressions in his eyes, his lips, as he recalls details from within his sleep, memories resurfacing themselves as they often do. ]
We all get 'em, right?
[ his answer speaks without weight, like it can be shrugged quite easily off of his shoulder when he turns to sit on his bed, eyes peering up at her. ]
Dreamt I was stuck in one of those ... Pride and Prejudice houses, all stuffy with people just spinning around the room cause they got nothing better to do. Was fighting for my life in there.
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when he offers even that much of a response, marta is surprised. but whatever words of encouragement or sympathy fizzle out like a doused flame when he finally fixes her with a look, and her own expression flattens out into something equal parts exasperated and resigned. ]
That must've been real terrible for you, [ she says around an overly sympathetic sigh. she lifts a had to her throat, covering the majority of it. ] Wearing a whole collar up to here. [ because apparently he's allergic to clothes.
her hand drops to her lip, her brows rise. ]
Will you be able to stay out of trouble while I go get my kit?
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because he thinks of what he'd decided there on that rock in the sunlight room, as they burned their dolls carrying the past, how he'd wrote that poem with the thought that she could be a willing friend.
but he's reminded the difficulty that comes with baring it all, the vulnerability, the transfer of weight, and he knows she's the type of person who'd take it, who'd comfort him through it, because she's already shown that selfless good will of hers. and somehow it doesn't seem fair. she shouldn't have to be responsible for his demons.
so he just smirks in light of her words, throwing himself full into the joke, because it's always easier than reality. peering around, he blows a breath, shrugging his shoulders. ]
Think I can stay on good behavior. Promise to even keep my pants on, just for you.
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of course this doesn't stop her from offering an ear to anyone who might need or want it, but if he doesn't want to talk about it, then maybe he's of the same mind. ]
I'll believe it when I see it.
[ or rather, when she doesn't see it.
but, this is good. a brief little breather to tilt her world back onto its axis. she counts the steps it takes from his room to the infirmary and back so that by the time she's entering his space again, her mind is a little clearer. ]
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he sighs, letting it all go, feeling the lingering ache at his back, at where the wound had healed before his dreams had gotten the best of him. for a while, they hadn't been present at all, easier to quiet away when there's an additional warmth at his side, when a body curls against him like a shield from the terrors, but he's returned to sleeping on his own, to being unguarded in the night to the taunting nightmares of his memories.
when he and marta had burned the dolls, he'd known it was just a gesture, just a performance, and it was only when she'd adjusted her own to mirror the imperfections of his that he'd even considered putting a bit of his hope into the idea — that maybe it could actually burn away the weight of the past.
he's not surprised he was wrong.
carefully, he lowers his body to rest on his side, back faced to the wall as his eyes still drift to peer around the empty room. slowly, they close, just gradually flutters that open and close slowly before he doesn't even realize when they shut completely, sleepless nights getting the past of him as he quietly falls into a light slumber. ]
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slowly she enters further into the room, setting her medical kit down on a nearby table. she briefly considers just coming back another time, leaving him to this momentary peace he'd found for himself. but if there's anything she knows about him, it's that his peaces never seem to last for very long. in which case...
her sigh is quiet as she takes a seat on an empty spot along his bed, lacing her fingers together and tucking her hand between her knees. instead of steps this time she counts the steady rise fall of his chest. breath in, breath out. one, two, one, two. ]
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he closes his eyes, letting it fall against the lids, until he can't even see the faint glow of the light from beyond them.
but then he can feel the light shift of mattress, a slight weight sitting close to his side and he exhales a breath, the sigh blowing away some of the ash from his face. of course she's here, like she's been the only one who could reach in and pull him out, and even with eyes still closed, he reaches out, fingers brushing to her thigh, knuckles giving a lazy graze, a voiceless nudge for her to curl into bed with him, to give him someplace out of the ash to rest his head. ]
Clara — [ he whispers her name like a sigh, like relief, that she'd somehow come back to him even after all he'd said to her.
when his eyes blink open, there's no ash, no hazy gaze of gray, his fingers brushing against a different thigh, the blur shifting away to find a different woman sitting upon his bed. it's not the first time he's woken up to find her there (find her making space in an empty room) but somehow he's still surprised, even if he can remember why she'd come here in the first place.
he curls his fingers inward to his palm, reeling his hand back slowly as he swallows, avoiding any attention to the gesture or the name that left his lips. ] ... hey. You're back.
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there's less than a handful of seconds between that touch and the sighing of that name, but for the duration of them it had seemed like a lifetime — and yet still not nearly long enough to even begin to decipher her emotions in that time.
when his eyes fix on her, seeing her, she looks away as if to grant him the privacy she couldn't just a few moments prior. ]
Where else would I be? You called me, remember?
[ he had called, needing her (or so it'd seemed) — of course she'd answer. it's as simple as that.
reaching for her kit, she motions for him to turn with her free hand. ]
Come on then. Show me your back.
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he's glad for the distraction when she suggests him to turn around, only taking a moment to nod before he spins his body to rest on his belly, turning his head to rest his cheek against the pillow, facing to the wall rather than towards her, like it could offer a moment to compose himself again. ]
Guess I passed out. You know how it goes — all these girls always walking in on me. Really ruins the sleep cycle.
[ easier to go back to joking, even if there isn't the same edge of playfulness as there had been earlier in his bantering teases. ]
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the problem is, marta's certain this isn't something for her to address. she had always suspected something had happened to him the night of christmas; how else to explain his complete shift in demeanor from that morning over their game of go to the late evening as he stumbled into the silent infirmary? she had had her theories, in the few moments she allowed herself to ponder over someone else's problems (problems he clearly didn't want to discuss) but never had she thought that at the crux of it would be a woman. one of their own, even. ]
Maybe next time consider locking the door.
[ but he slips back into that sardonic wit like a comfortable sweater, and marta knows any window of opportunity she had to ask about it has closed. she's curious, but she doesn't pry, so she keeps working and working and working on the one pain of his she knows how to treat. ]
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but he isn't falling asleep this time, not with the nagging press in his mind over the name he'd uttered out loud, one that she doesn't seem to be asking about, even if he has a feeling she's likely casting her own thoughts and assumptions about it silently in her own mind. ]
Then what happens when I really am lying on my shower floor dying and I need you to rush in to save me?
[ not actually a likely scenario, he assumes, but it's another attempt to keep playing with the dangling string of sarcasm he still has left in the conversation.
but a sigh leaves his lips, heavy that he almost feels his body sinking against the mattress, and maybe it's in that, with his eyes safe away from her gaze that he almost feels compelled to be honest — not about clara; he doubts he could really choke out anything about his relationship with her, because he knows it comes paired with the weight of the deal he's made, something that he doesn't have any intention on bringing up to anyone. but maybe he could at least answer what she did ask about. ]
The ... day the Envoys died — [ he'd told her about it. on new years day. ] I still dream about it. Sometimes even when I'm awake. I can ... still see the ash from the explosions, falling over me like snow. I'd feel it on my skin, inhale it like it's still burning. And I just ... I lose myself in it. Like I'm back there and I ... I wait for it to bury me with the rest of them.
[ even now, his mouth feels dry, and he runs his tongue across his lips to wet them. ]
When I woke up from a long sleep a few months ago, it was supposed to be a temporary side effect — disorientation, visual and auditory hallucinations, low-grade amnesia. And it stopped for a while, but ... they came back recently. The nightmares. Sometimes it's harder to pull out. Last night, I had to really shake out of it. Must've ripped the stitches.
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she keeps quiet, and yet her hands stutter, faltering only once as he speaks a truth so close to home she wonders if part of his envoy skills isn't seeing right through her. when silence settles between them again, she finds it isn't too difficult to think of what to say. ]
I think the worst thing about nightmares is that each time you have them, it always feels like the first time.
[ cruel enough for a mind to remind you of your pain, but to make you relive it each time like tearing open a new wound on flesh already so littered with barely-healed scars... marta knows how toxic guilt can be. how feeling like being the one to survive is meant to be a curse to carry the memory of those who left before you — for you — like an emptiness that just won't fill.
how many nights has she spent waking up to the memory of harlan's soulless eyes staring back at her? how many more has kovacs had remember so many more?
work done, she sits back a bit to give him some room. still, she has to keep busy, works on cleaning up and putting things away so it doesn't feel like she's reaching in, tearing out her own haphazard stitches to speak of a memory she won't let herself forget. ]
Before I came here... I lost someone too. [ the corner of her lips twitch, even as her vision blurs. ] A dear friend.
[ she looks up from her hands, follows the line of his spine up to the back of his head. she wonders what his expression looks like now. if it's in any way a mirror of hers. ]
It's... hard. Being the one left behind.