[ 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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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.