[ when he'd first agreed to help her, he hadn't actually considered the extent that they'd actually be spending time together. pairing up on a job sounded easy enough, but considering how long he'd gone on working on his own, he'd forgotten about the minutes and hours that came stitched in between, when the company becomes so consistent that you even begin to start forgetting when to part ways, when the work stops and somehow they're still there.
briefly, it reminds him of sarah (prompting a sigh that carries something of a relief when he recognizes that she isn't a memory he's forgotten about), to their days of merc work just before they put him on the slap for over two centuries. with all the hours he's had with marta these past weeks, it's been similar enough to the kind of work entanglement he'd had with sarah — just short of spending actual nights together, which he's already put a restriction on in his mind.
but helping her survive this feels safe enough, feels necessary when he knows she's trying as hard as she is, especially after she's granted him a number of favors already. she stitches up his wounds, he could keep her from throwing up all over scorpion's bend. and how to ride a horse apparently. ]
Just stay relaxed while you're up there. They sense that kind of thing. You start freaking out, she's gonna know.
[ watching marta settle up on top of the saddle, kovacs remains below for now, fingers stroking the side of the animal's face to keep it steady, his hat tilted back on his head so he can keep a watchful eye on his partner. ]
[ the rains that had come along with the second group had been an inconvenience at the time, but now days after marta finds herself missing the reprieve from the planet's merciless twin suns. she blinks up at the clear skies, no cloud in sight to offer them shade, and blows out a puff of air that's meant to be steeling, but all it does is make the horse she's mounted on grunt and whinny in protest. so maybe the sigh had been more aggressive than she intended. ]
Can't I just walk everywhere?
[ she slides a pitiful look over to her partner, though it's clear she's half-joking. of course she recognizes the importance in learning how to use the town's main source of transportation, but now she's wondering of maybe she should have stuck to the mechanical horses instead. surely they wouldn't care if she's just a bundle of nerves, right? ]
Sure. Maybe get yourself caught under a storm out on the field if we get clouds again like we did two days ago. Or, even better, your feet can carry you off safely for cover if a couple of bandits charge in on their own horses and chase you down.
[ blunt and maybe even a little threatening, but he wouldn't actually be bothering to teach her any of this if it didn't come with its purposes, and more particularly the ones in which it'll keep her safe, especially with the way she constantly seems like she's fretting how much she's in over her head.
his own horse is a short distance away, taking advantage of being ignored to sniff at the ground for some semblance of edible grass amongst sandy dirt and dried land. kovacs keeps his attention up to marta for the moment, pursing his lips. ]
If you end up needing a quick escape here, this is gonna be your best bet. I might not be around to swoop you up myself if worse comes to worst.
[ marta doesn't normally pout, so what she does right now is the closest thing to it. ]
You're especially grumpy today. Did you lose a game of cards last night?
[ she readjusts herself in her seat, firms up her hold on the reins, like sitting up straighter will somehow instantly make her a better rider. in her defense it's not as if she's trying to be obstinate here; it's all just an unfortunate combination of multiple frustrations putting her in a dour mood. the general unease of how heavily the mission depends on deception, the number of missing folks still unaccounted for despite the new group's arrival, her overall lack of absolutely anything useful to supply the team with, despite having had all this extra time. and the goddamn heat beating down on her like it's got absolutely no chill (pun intended) at all.
another sigh, and the reins get ignored for a second so she can shrug off her vest and shove it at him. her sleeves get rolled up, revealing a splattering of freckles matching the ones that'd blossomed over her nose and cheeks the very second the planet's twin suns hit her skin. she readjusts her ponytail, trying to pull as many errand strands of her out of her face as possible. ]
[ not especially true, but she's not wrong in noticing the notable tension in him, credited either to a lack of sleep or a lack of ... plenty of things. there's frustration in that there's still plenty in this town they haven't figured out yet, that the trouble with bandits and menial work requests have kept him from diving into why they're really here. there's a parallel in both of their body languages from that, whether they seem to address it or not, even if he tries to appear more apathetic to the whole ordeal as to not carry it over.
his brows knit tight when her vest gets shoved at him, giving her a brief look of really? before simply tucking it under his arm to revert back to guiding her. ]
You want to keep them both in one hand, so you can keep one active. [ reaching in for her hand, he slides the reins beneath her fingers, tucking it against her thumb in the right position, his own calloused skin brushing hers to coordinate her posture, warm from the cascading heat. ] Hover it over the middle and don't grip tight. Just enough so that you're ready to pull and direct when you need to.
[ it's late. so late marta doesn't even dare check what time it is, but by now the adrenaline from the attack has seeped out of her veins and the desert's unforgiving chill has reached her bones, making her lips pale and her teeth chatter. still, she doesn't think to return back to her room at thornbush inn, instead dragging her feet to the saloon like she's being drawn there by some magnetic force.
her body tells her she rest, or if not that then at least tend to the gash above her brow, still dripping blood down the side of her face. there's blood all over the rest of her too, staining her nightgown and her hands, but it isn't hers. it's why she's here, doing what she's about to do.
(not because she's scared, not because she knows he wouldn't be.)
she knocks once, twice. a third time for luck, though it seems a silly thing to wish for now. ]
[ normally, he's a light enough sleeper, enough that whatever attacks had begun out in the town, he's have heard it. but having had another long night at sindown, another in which he'd only drowned himself in whiskey, rather than go along with his original intention in taking some company up to a private room, he'd easily passed out in his room at the saloon, only barely even getting there with the drag of his feet, along with only managing to yank off the liquor-stained shirt, still in his trousers and boots when he collides with the stiff mattress.
another dream tonight, a nightmare as is the typical routine — the ash, the fire, the gunshots, the corpses — it's no different as any other night, like he's simply repainting every detail by vivid memory, replaying like it'll never stop.
it's only the sudden knock at the door that jolts him awake, shuddering like someone had shoved him directly. another knock, and then another, before he finally pulls himself out of bed, nearly forgetting that he's still half-dressed, as his eyes peer to the window to note the darkness still outside.
he wipes at his face right before opening the door, a squint aimed at marta's direction, prepared to mutter what the hell she was doing here at whatever hour it is — until his eyes go wide, falling upon the blood stains at her eyebrow, to the matching crimson on her gown and he moves before he can stop himself, large palm cupping at her neck, thumb braced against her jaw as he studies her more hastily now, along her face and her body, searching for the injuries, for the source of all that blood. ]
[ what she expects is this: a sleep-haggard kovacs, grumpy over the disruption, ready to roll his eyes at her frayed nerves before quietly assuaging her worries. or a kovacs already awake, dusty and dirty from a tussle with some bandits, really to fling himself into bed and let the exhaustion of the evening claim him.
she doesn't expect this. the look in his eyes, the concern that floods them.
his hand is warm, so warm against the icy chill of her skin that it sucks the breath right out of her, shoves her words back down her throat to get caught right where his palm rests.
for a second she forgets why she'd come there. for a second she forgets even them. for that second it's just his hand, her skin, the words in her throat struggling to break free like the wild beating of a heart.
she gasps. ]
—Fine. I'm fine. [ she's bleeding. ] It's just a cut. [ there's blood all over— ] The rest isn't mine.
[ the hand she'd been using to knock on his door had been left to hover in the air, but somewhere between his words and hers it had found a seat along his wrist, feeling the erratic beat of his pulse on her thumb. (did she do that?)
[ it's all plenty jarring, being woken up so suddenly, dream still faintly colliding into reality, lost in a dream of war and death and waking to find marta rattled before his eyes, coated in blood. for a moment, he thinks he's still dreaming, that his past has just overlapped with his present, that his dream has gripped marta and placed her right into the battle of stronghold, another victim amongst the clutter of envoys.
but when he touches her, palm braced in the space between neck and cheek, she's undeniably warm, hardly a dream with the heated softness of her skin beneath his touch. he can feel her nerves there, presumably thrummed up by whatever frantic emergency has brought her here, her pulse thumping against his fingers.
his eyes peer over her in search of the possible wound, finding her eyes again when she suggests the blood isn't hers, stilling when her fingers curve against his wrist.
for a moment, he doesn't even move at all, just a few seconds that last longer than they should as he looks at her while he reels himself back to being a little more focused, alert, now that he's awake. ]
Come on. [ he eases his hand away, as if the touch hadn't even been there at all, instead nudging them against her back to urge her inside before he stands in front of the doorway, looking out to make sure no one's been chasing her and followed after her.
shutting the door, he turns to her, shaking his head. ] What the hell happened out there?
[ she'd come here for a purpose, spurred by whatever adrenaline she'd had left from the scuffle to make her far braver than she would normally be. but the second she's ushered in, and the backdrop of the evening falls away with the quiet close of the door behind him, marta feels her fear returning to her, manifesting in a slight tremor to her hands that she tries to smother with harsh grips to her arms. ]
Bandits. They came in late last night while everyone was asleep.
[ now it's her turn to look him over, searching for any evidence that he'd been out there too. there's nothing accusatory in her look, just the same sort of concern mirrored back at him. ]
They're gone now. Chased away or... or they got what they came for.
[ most nights haven't necessarily gone as planned, a sort of regularity that he's gotten used to in this place, but tonight's shatter into reality takes an entirely different turn when he sees her for the first time in well over a month. kovacs hadn't been completely unaware of clara's arrival, having heard earlier in the week that the third and final group had practically crash landed some distance out of town, but he figured he could possibly blend in with the rest of the town to avoid any direct contact, his own scruffy facial hair grown out to hide a bit more of his face, his typical cowboy hat hiding a good degree of his eyes, but kovacs has never considered luck to be something he'd associate with himself, so when he does come face-to-face with clara within the walls of sindown tonight, he can't say he's too surprised that it doesn't go well at all.
after the conversation, it's as if weeks of progression are tossed entirely into waste, catapulted back to the night of christmas, to misery coursing along every vein, every muscle, every bone. he's half-tempted to pull up his unicorn back, scavenging inside for whatever narcotics could shut down his mind most tonight, charging his way back into sindown for the first lady he can tip well enough to take into bed.
but for some reason, when he considers how he wants to spend his coping hours, his thoughts don't drift to the gorgeous women he's seen parade the walls of the pleasure house. instead, he finds himself trapped in the memory of when he'd woken up past that haunting christmas night, to the early hours exhausted in the infirmary bed, eyes blinking to marta curled up in the seat beside him, that cheesy romance novel in her lap. he remembers her not asking questions about what had happened or why he'd recklessly shoved an unknown number of drugs in his body or how he even felt beyond checking for the physical symptoms. he thinks of her voice reading out the pages to him, carrying on with the story once he'd asked her to keep going.
having downed nearly half a bottle of whiskey he'd picked up from some corner he'd shoved it into in the agency office, his feet drag him through the town, half-expecting his subconscious to take him straight back to sindown. instead, when he catches himself standing in front of the thornbush inn, he sighs to himself with a private roll of his eyes, like he's silently judging his own idiocy.
normally, he'd choose to avoid dragging anyone else to join him on his tour of self-torment, but in the past month, he's grown used to having a particular kind of company, a consistency he hasn't had since constantly relying on poe's presence over in the raven hotel back in bay city — and marta's made for more tolerable company than an obsessive, poetic a.i.
fingers gripping the neck of a half-empty bottle hanging in one hand, he knocks on her door with the other once he's made his way inside, letting his body lean into the door frame, practically slumping as he waits for her to answer, not even entirely sure whether she'd even be awake in this excessively late hour of the night. ]
[ of course she's awake. while her insomnia may not manifest itself as obviously as his does (haunting their office or sindown like an aimless ghost, looking for something to tether him to the earth), it still remains like an annoying itch in a place she can't quite reach. by now she's already exhausted the novels she'd packed along with her, and any book she'd managed to get her hand on here eventually fades into gibberish. so most nights she's left alone with her thoughts, the absolute last thing she could possibly want.
maybe that's why the sound of the knock is such a welcome one. maybe that's why she's already on her feet by the second sound, moving towards the door before the self-preservation in her head reminds her maybe she shouldn't be so eager to answer a call this late in the evening, in a town full of strangers she shouldn't think of trusting.
the pull of the door is slow, revealing a crack just wide enough she can peek through it. but the moment she recognizes who's on the other side, the door falls open all the way. her mouth falls open, but the question she has dies on her tongue when she sees that hallowed out look on his face, the way he's barely even holding himself up.
maybe she shouldn't dare to assume to know him by now, but somehow just from the look on his face — she thinks she knows. that's why she ends up saying nothing, instead stepping aside to wordlessly welcome him in. ]
[ it isn't until the door opens that he comes to realize that he doesn't actually know what to expect of this, that it doesn't carry the same thoughtless craving that he might have pursued if he'd made his way over to sindown. but there's an ease when the door widens and it's her face behind it, like the familiarity proves itself to be a reliable comfort, something constant during a night that everything else seems to be going wrong. there's guilt too, present in his face when he slowly diverts his eyes to the ground, realizing the lack of fairness in dragging her into his mess, just as she'd had to rescue him back on that christmas night.
but when she only seems to widen the door further for him, drawing his eyes up again, he doesn't see any judgment in hers, no questioning gaze about his disastrous appearance, just the welcoming gesture into the quiet space of her room, away from the harsh weight of everything outside of it.
with a momentary glance spared her way, carrying silent and subtle appreciation, he takes her invitation, feet pulling him inside, eyes vaguely drifting around the place in recognition that he hasn't actually been here before, been in her space the way she's somehow been in his a number of times now, be it his room here or back at the station. clean and simple, with a predictable stack of books on the table, a few spines familiar from the way he's caught them splayed open against her fingers.
standing in the midst of the room, he turns to her again, giving her another quiet look before he holds the bottle of whiskey up, tilting it towards her in offering. ]
[ silence can be so much, for so many different reasons, but there's something to be said about a comfortable, shared silence between two souls who may not need words to know what's being said. it's a silence marta knows well, present in so many treasured memories she has of harlan. it's a silence she and kovacs have had before, heads bent over open books in the late hours of the infirmary, or even here in town, sitting across each other at their small work desk, waiting out the worst of the midday heat in their office.
right now the silence between them carries a different note, something tinged with a heavy melancholy that drags at his feet, makes the offer of the bottle seem more like a herculean effort than it usually would be.
she smiles, because she has to, something exasperated and wry. door shut behind her she steps up to take his offer, curling her hand around his to guide the lip of the bottle up to her own. she'll take a swig, keeping hold of his eyes too; a silent acknowledgment that she's in this now, joining him for whatever it is and will be.
and when she finishes, she'll offer her own hand out towards the only seats available in the small room — her bed. have a seat, get cozy. he doesn't have to be anywhere he doesn't want to be. ]
[ he feels the curl of her fingers, smaller than his own, the gentle lift of the bottle that she guides with his hand until it tips to her mouth. she doesn't say a word through it, but the gesture is a performance all its own, and he exhales a soft breath, because she doesn't have to be doing any of it, could have just as easily rolled her eyes at his presence at her door and told him to go sleep it off. but in the same way they agreed to take on this job together, to putting their names on that board as a tied partnership, she does the same thing here, even without the need to pretend for the locals, without the obligation of what the mission expects of them.
when she finishes her drink, he moves in for one of his own, lips taking his own swig where her lips had been, a continued shared look before he responds to the motion of her invitation. with a slight lick across his lips to taste the remnants of whiskey there, he finishes off the very few steps it takes to move within the small confinement of the room, his body somehow seeming even larger when it sits upon the edge of her small bed.
his eyes peer to the space next to him before drifting back to her, like he already knows where she's going to go before she gets there, every motion, every movement, every thought, etched in mere glances before they're performed. envoy intuition would be the excuse at any other moment, but there's no presence of that here, only the wordless performance of two minds that have seemed to learn one another while he hadn't been looking. ]
[ the more revelations keep cropping up about their mission, the more marta begins to wonder what she's even doing there. an entire month's head start, and all she's got to show for it is a dusty little shared office and a new regret for ever taking sunblock for granted. she knows she shouldn't be too hard on herself, what with it being her first mission and all, but some evenings she can't drown out the little voice in her head that loves to feed her doubt.
those are the evenings she spends in the saloon, tucking herself into her own little table to try and let the tempered chaos of the space distract her from herself. this particular one sees the aid of a few bottles of beer... perhaps even one too many.
when she spots him entering the saloon and noticing her, she meets his eye for an entire second before she looks away, like that will somehow erase from his notice the flush of her cheeks, the emptiness of the bottles in front of her. she's not ashamed by any means, but it isn't lost on her how this situation is often in the reverse when it comes to them. ]
[ for plenty of nights in the first few weeks, kovacs had slipped into sindown for multiple attempts at seeking out a plentiful distraction, something that would turn his mind solely to pleasure rather than the consistent reminders of the ache that comes in a multitude of other forms. but after coming face to face with clara at the same brothel he'd hoped to find an escape in, along with enduring enough failed attempts at keeping his attention on anyone else there ready to keep him entertained, kovacs has given up on the idea of getting his mind distracted enough by any woman —
which proves ironic when he enters into the saloon tonight and instantly has his eyes locked upon a particular one seated at one of the table on her own, a cluster of bottles keeping her company, the very same woman that's actually succeeded in occupying a few of his nights in their entirety, though for reasons completely different than what he'd originally been seeking out.
rather than heading straight to the bar counter for a drink as he's usually wont to do, kovacs works his way over to her table, moving with a casual air almost as if he'd intended to meet her there this entire time, despite the way she turns her eyes away, even sliding into the seat beside her without asking for permission first. ]
This seat taken? [ alright, so maybe he'll ask after he's already taken it. ]
[ she maintains her dropped gaze right up until he's suddenly there in front of her, looking every bit like he belongs. like that seat had been meant for him.
had it? ]
You must be tired of this view by now.
[ enough days seated across each other in their dingy little office, but her words aren't nearly as accusatory as she'd intended them to be, but rather more defensive because she knows it is a new sight in its own way — her hair loose around her face, freckled cheeks flushed from overindulging, stuffed into a fitted dress courtesy of a certain fashion-forward time traveller — and that it should leave her feeling self-conscious, but the beers have left her bones feeling heavy enough she doesn't manage more than a slight shift in her seat.
then suddenly she's leaning forward, like she's sharing a secret. ]
I should warn you. I've been drinking.
[ but what she's actually warning him for she... doesn't elaborate. from the slow blink she gives him, it could very well be she'd already forgotten. ]
[ for a moment, he thinks she might be referring to the saloon itself, for all the nights he's found himself here one way or another, especially because his own room happens to be in this very same, but then he realizes she might be indicating herself, for all that they've ended up seeing one another in this mission, far more than he'd actually considered they would back when he first suggested that they work together for the sake of helping her get caught up in too much of a lie.
only, he hasn't actually felt himself tired of it at all, even in times where he might roll his eyes at some of her more nagging statements, either scolding him for his behavior or overt snark, or to eat some food despite the ration shortage going around the town. seeing her from day to day has been one of the few things around here he could actually rely on in being familiar and not catapulting him right into a state of frustration.
what does differ is the style in which he's seeing her, recognizing some of the makeup styles that had been previewed that night in the office, only it's now paired with a fashion shift too. ]
Have you? Didn't notice.
[ pulling his hat off of his head to rest it on the opposite end of the table, his brow raises playfully, considering the abundance of bottles in front of her; he's seen her drink a number of times already, but never to this quantity. plucking the one directly in front of her that still has some liquid inside, he brings it to his own lips, taking a long sip while looking at her. ]
[ it occurs to her as she watches him unapologetically drink from her own bottle that maybe she should protest, but it isn't as if this is the first time they've done it to each other, and that maybe that's what she should be focussing on instead... but luckily he starts speaking, providing a convenient out.
should he be worried? marta has no clue anymore. she's already lost the plot of this story, and they haven't even begun yet. ultimately, she decides on— ]
No. Just that I've had a head start.
[ because it seems he's joining her now, easing himself into yet another part of her routine with an ease she might have envied if she weren't so perplexed by it. yet apparently not perplexed enough to question it. ]
[ when everyone had first dissolved into ash, marta had all too soon found him. she'd reached out carefully with her fingers, eyes as wide as they often are, bright and hazel, a mirrored match to his own (no, not his own, they're not your eyes, he always hears), honest with concern. he hadn't quite shaken her off, not wanting to rudely discard her good intentions, but he'd insisted he was fine, even if he'd known why she was worried. at the time, he didn't think it would matter.
but with the passing days, he threads the similarities more and more, in ways that hadn't initially been so obvious, the ash upon the ground never quite floating away with the wind, lingering as though it's designated itself to haunt the town for the foreseeable future.
when he dreams, it's never a surprise to find the ash there too. but now it's intertwined with the recent memories of scorpion's bend, a twist to the way he stands in the middle of its central street, its false citizens carrying about their usual routine as he'd grown accustomed to seeing day by day. all at once, they start to scream, fingers beginning to claw at each other's skin like animals, howling with feral cries.
Monsters — we're the monsters! they scream, destroying one another before they collapse on the ground, bodies piling on bodies.
the ash rains from above, always gentle like snow, like it shields away the horror of the bloody scene. but tonight it isn't over. amongst the corpses, there she stands — quell.
in his head, he hears a voice. xichen utters quietly, He told me that pulsefire is used to clean out towns by bandits who are looking for treasure. It leaves nothing living behind.
quell raises up her arm, fingers reaching out to him. Tak— suddenly she burns, too fast to even suffer, flames engulfing her into ash. kovacs screams, but he can't move forward. his feet remain trapped beneath the corpses.
Tak— he hears again. a different voice. he turns to see reileen, his sister reaching out with her fingers the same way quell had done. once more, the pulsefire burns her to nothing.
yet again, Tak— and he turns to see clara standing there. he shakes his head frantically, thinking no, no, no, but all at once, she's lost in the fire.
his body shakes, thinking there can't be more, but then, Tak—
with a slow turn, marta stands with her eyes on him. once again, wide and almost pleading with her worry, the soft stare that mirrors into his own eyes. this time, it's him that's reaching, arm outstretched trying to get to her before it's too late.
the pulsefire burns. ]
No — ! [ he screams out, body trembling, skin damp with sweat, as he sits up from his jarring startle, peering around to find himself in that cramp little office, still on the small mattress he'd found and shoved into the corner for them to camp in. and when he turns, breaths panting heavily, marta's there beside him, untouched by pulsefire, not burned into ash, but alive and breathing. ]
[ it's strange how much more sleep she's gotten since welford branson's illusion came crashing down around them all. logically, she would have more worries to keep her up, and yet almost every night since then she's found herself slipping easier, deeper. maybe it's the cold, forcing her mind to shut down to conserve energy. maybe it's the extra heartbeat lulling her to sleep.
(maybe it's just him.)
she doesn't wake when he does, but the second after, practically dragged out of her own slumber by his shudder, his shout. by the time her eyes fly open he's there, sitting up and looking down at her like he's just seen a ghost.
or is it that he thinks he's looking at one now? ]
Tak. I'm okay. [ she remembers the nickname that he'd told her, though she takes care to use it sparingly, like it's some delicate, precious secret he's entrusted to her, even though she knows that's hardly true. still, it's moments like these that feel necessary to use it, and use it she does with the soft, raspiness of a voice still thick with sleep.
she sits up, reaches out with a hand left chilled by the unforgiving desert night, but it burns when she rests it against his cheek, slick with sweat. ] You're okay, [ she reminds him steadily. her other hand comes up, framing his face. ] Just breathe.
[ when she says tak, he's almost frightened he's in the dream suddenly again, but when her hands reach him, unlike in the world where he hadn't been able to make the connection, he feels the cool of her palms soothing him, shifting into a shared warmth between her skin and his. he listens to her voice, letting it ground him, bringing him back into the world of this tiny mattress, into their little corner, their private world they've made into a safe haven for themselves.
with her aid, his breath begins to slowly steady, albeit still deep with quiet sighs, and he brings up his own hands to slide against her wrists, slim and soft to the touch. with closed eyes, his fingers rise against her knuckles, feeling out the curve of the bones, pressing gently to brings her palms further against his cheeks.
he breathes. once and then again. inhale. exhale. she's here. she's alive.
even as he calms, he doesn't open his eyes, simply feeling her, letting him soak up her presence through touch. he doesn't trust his sight, relying on her heat to tell him what's real. ]
You were right. [ he says quietly through the silent air, the room empty save for the space they take up together in this corner. ] I — I see it. The ash. I see it everywhere.
[ her hands still under his exploring touch, letting him find what he needs to ground himself. when she feels the desperate pull of his hands, she presses her palms all the more against his clammy skin, like it would somehow let the heat from their joined bodies permeate through to the calm the storm in his mind.
at his confession, her heart aches, thumbs sweeping across the high points of his cheeks, wiping away those phantom tears. ]
There's no ash here, Takeshi.
[ her voice is quiet, sincere. tipping forward till their foreheads touch, til a subtle shift of her head has their noses brush. if touch is what anchors him, she'll not be greedy. ]
[ she moves in closer to him and he breaths her in, the softness of her voice ringing out to him in tandem with the soothing guidance of her touch, planted palms framing him securely and steadily between them. with the brush of her nose, her breath fans against his lips, warm against the biting chill of the cold desert weather.
it's just you and me. and he believes it. nothing else needs to be real except this.
and for a moment, that's all he allows, not even taking a chance on speaking again until he knows for sure, until his heart slows down to something more comfortable. if his hands move, it's only to roll light caresses to the back of hers, thumb offering lazy circular strokes to the bone of her wrist.
(if i lose every other memory, just let me keep this, his mind briefly wanders.)
with a swallow, he finally parts his lips to speak again. ]
I've been seeing it more often again. Ever since we lost the town. [ he sighs, letting his breath wash over hers. ] I keep thinking about ... old man Branson. Way he lost everyone he cared about and survived, living in his guilt. Way he couldn't save anyone, so a part of him tried to forget it somehow.
[ quiet again, and then, ] What if — what if that's just me too? What if I can't save anyone and I just get stuck with the ghosts?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dirty (muddy) saddle party;
briefly, it reminds him of sarah (prompting a sigh that carries something of a relief when he recognizes that she isn't a memory he's forgotten about), to their days of merc work just before they put him on the slap for over two centuries. with all the hours he's had with marta these past weeks, it's been similar enough to the kind of work entanglement he'd had with sarah — just short of spending actual nights together, which he's already put a restriction on in his mind.
but helping her survive this feels safe enough, feels necessary when he knows she's trying as hard as she is, especially after she's granted him a number of favors already. she stitches up his wounds, he could keep her from throwing up all over scorpion's bend. and how to ride a horse apparently. ]
Just stay relaxed while you're up there. They sense that kind of thing. You start freaking out, she's gonna know.
[ watching marta settle up on top of the saddle, kovacs remains below for now, fingers stroking the side of the animal's face to keep it steady, his hat tilted back on his head so he can keep a watchful eye on his partner. ]
no subject
Can't I just walk everywhere?
[ she slides a pitiful look over to her partner, though it's clear she's half-joking. of course she recognizes the importance in learning how to use the town's main source of transportation, but now she's wondering of maybe she should have stuck to the mechanical horses instead. surely they wouldn't care if she's just a bundle of nerves, right? ]
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[ blunt and maybe even a little threatening, but he wouldn't actually be bothering to teach her any of this if it didn't come with its purposes, and more particularly the ones in which it'll keep her safe, especially with the way she constantly seems like she's fretting how much she's in over her head.
his own horse is a short distance away, taking advantage of being ignored to sniff at the ground for some semblance of edible grass amongst sandy dirt and dried land. kovacs keeps his attention up to marta for the moment, pursing his lips. ]
If you end up needing a quick escape here, this is gonna be your best bet. I might not be around to swoop you up myself if worse comes to worst.
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You're especially grumpy today. Did you lose a game of cards last night?
[ she readjusts herself in her seat, firms up her hold on the reins, like sitting up straighter will somehow instantly make her a better rider. in her defense it's not as if she's trying to be obstinate here; it's all just an unfortunate combination of multiple frustrations putting her in a dour mood. the general unease of how heavily the mission depends on deception, the number of missing folks still unaccounted for despite the new group's arrival, her overall lack of absolutely anything useful to supply the team with, despite having had all this extra time. and the goddamn heat beating down on her like it's got absolutely no chill (pun intended) at all.
another sigh, and the reins get ignored for a second so she can shrug off her vest and shove it at him. her sleeves get rolled up, revealing a splattering of freckles matching the ones that'd blossomed over her nose and cheeks the very second the planet's twin suns hit her skin. she readjusts her ponytail, trying to pull as many errand strands of her out of her face as possible. ]
Okay. What do I do with the reins again?
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[ not especially true, but she's not wrong in noticing the notable tension in him, credited either to a lack of sleep or a lack of ... plenty of things. there's frustration in that there's still plenty in this town they haven't figured out yet, that the trouble with bandits and menial work requests have kept him from diving into why they're really here. there's a parallel in both of their body languages from that, whether they seem to address it or not, even if he tries to appear more apathetic to the whole ordeal as to not carry it over.
his brows knit tight when her vest gets shoved at him, giving her a brief look of really? before simply tucking it under his arm to revert back to guiding her. ]
You want to keep them both in one hand, so you can keep one active. [ reaching in for her hand, he slides the reins beneath her fingers, tucking it against her thumb in the right position, his own calloused skin brushing hers to coordinate her posture, warm from the cascading heat. ] Hover it over the middle and don't grip tight. Just enough so that you're ready to pull and direct when you need to.
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is that a gun in your pocket;
her body tells her she rest, or if not that then at least tend to the gash above her brow, still dripping blood down the side of her face. there's blood all over the rest of her too, staining her nightgown and her hands, but it isn't hers. it's why she's here, doing what she's about to do.
(not because she's scared, not because she knows he wouldn't be.)
she knocks once, twice. a third time for luck, though it seems a silly thing to wish for now. ]
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another dream tonight, a nightmare as is the typical routine — the ash, the fire, the gunshots, the corpses — it's no different as any other night, like he's simply repainting every detail by vivid memory, replaying like it'll never stop.
it's only the sudden knock at the door that jolts him awake, shuddering like someone had shoved him directly. another knock, and then another, before he finally pulls himself out of bed, nearly forgetting that he's still half-dressed, as his eyes peer to the window to note the darkness still outside.
he wipes at his face right before opening the door, a squint aimed at marta's direction, prepared to mutter what the hell she was doing here at whatever hour it is — until his eyes go wide, falling upon the blood stains at her eyebrow, to the matching crimson on her gown and he moves before he can stop himself, large palm cupping at her neck, thumb braced against her jaw as he studies her more hastily now, along her face and her body, searching for the injuries, for the source of all that blood. ]
Marta, what — ? You hurt?
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she doesn't expect this. the look in his eyes, the concern that floods them.
his hand is warm, so warm against the icy chill of her skin that it sucks the breath right out of her, shoves her words back down her throat to get caught right where his palm rests.
for a second she forgets why she'd come there. for a second she forgets even them. for that second it's just his hand, her skin, the words in her throat struggling to break free like the wild beating of a heart.
she gasps. ]
—Fine. I'm fine. [ she's bleeding. ] It's just a cut. [ there's blood all over— ] The rest isn't mine.
[ the hand she'd been using to knock on his door had been left to hover in the air, but somewhere between his words and hers it had found a seat along his wrist, feeling the erratic beat of his pulse on her thumb. (did she do that?)
when she swallows, he'll feel it. ]
Can I come in?
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but when he touches her, palm braced in the space between neck and cheek, she's undeniably warm, hardly a dream with the heated softness of her skin beneath his touch. he can feel her nerves there, presumably thrummed up by whatever frantic emergency has brought her here, her pulse thumping against his fingers.
his eyes peer over her in search of the possible wound, finding her eyes again when she suggests the blood isn't hers, stilling when her fingers curve against his wrist.
for a moment, he doesn't even move at all, just a few seconds that last longer than they should as he looks at her while he reels himself back to being a little more focused, alert, now that he's awake. ]
Come on. [ he eases his hand away, as if the touch hadn't even been there at all, instead nudging them against her back to urge her inside before he stands in front of the doorway, looking out to make sure no one's been chasing her and followed after her.
shutting the door, he turns to her, shaking his head. ] What the hell happened out there?
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Bandits. They came in late last night while everyone was asleep.
[ now it's her turn to look him over, searching for any evidence that he'd been out there too. there's nothing accusatory in her look, just the same sort of concern mirrored back at him. ]
They're gone now. Chased away or... or they got what they came for.
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cw: suicide mention
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there's something lost in my head; could you help me fix it?
after the conversation, it's as if weeks of progression are tossed entirely into waste, catapulted back to the night of christmas, to misery coursing along every vein, every muscle, every bone. he's half-tempted to pull up his unicorn back, scavenging inside for whatever narcotics could shut down his mind most tonight, charging his way back into sindown for the first lady he can tip well enough to take into bed.
but for some reason, when he considers how he wants to spend his coping hours, his thoughts don't drift to the gorgeous women he's seen parade the walls of the pleasure house. instead, he finds himself trapped in the memory of when he'd woken up past that haunting christmas night, to the early hours exhausted in the infirmary bed, eyes blinking to marta curled up in the seat beside him, that cheesy romance novel in her lap. he remembers her not asking questions about what had happened or why he'd recklessly shoved an unknown number of drugs in his body or how he even felt beyond checking for the physical symptoms. he thinks of her voice reading out the pages to him, carrying on with the story once he'd asked her to keep going.
having downed nearly half a bottle of whiskey he'd picked up from some corner he'd shoved it into in the agency office, his feet drag him through the town, half-expecting his subconscious to take him straight back to sindown. instead, when he catches himself standing in front of the thornbush inn, he sighs to himself with a private roll of his eyes, like he's silently judging his own idiocy.
normally, he'd choose to avoid dragging anyone else to join him on his tour of self-torment, but in the past month, he's grown used to having a particular kind of company, a consistency he hasn't had since constantly relying on poe's presence over in the raven hotel back in bay city — and marta's made for more tolerable company than an obsessive, poetic a.i.
fingers gripping the neck of a half-empty bottle hanging in one hand, he knocks on her door with the other once he's made his way inside, letting his body lean into the door frame, practically slumping as he waits for her to answer, not even entirely sure whether she'd even be awake in this excessively late hour of the night. ]
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maybe that's why the sound of the knock is such a welcome one. maybe that's why she's already on her feet by the second sound, moving towards the door before the self-preservation in her head reminds her maybe she shouldn't be so eager to answer a call this late in the evening, in a town full of strangers she shouldn't think of trusting.
the pull of the door is slow, revealing a crack just wide enough she can peek through it. but the moment she recognizes who's on the other side, the door falls open all the way. her mouth falls open, but the question she has dies on her tongue when she sees that hallowed out look on his face, the way he's barely even holding himself up.
maybe she shouldn't dare to assume to know him by now, but somehow just from the look on his face — she thinks she knows. that's why she ends up saying nothing, instead stepping aside to wordlessly welcome him in. ]
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but when she only seems to widen the door further for him, drawing his eyes up again, he doesn't see any judgment in hers, no questioning gaze about his disastrous appearance, just the welcoming gesture into the quiet space of her room, away from the harsh weight of everything outside of it.
with a momentary glance spared her way, carrying silent and subtle appreciation, he takes her invitation, feet pulling him inside, eyes vaguely drifting around the place in recognition that he hasn't actually been here before, been in her space the way she's somehow been in his a number of times now, be it his room here or back at the station. clean and simple, with a predictable stack of books on the table, a few spines familiar from the way he's caught them splayed open against her fingers.
standing in the midst of the room, he turns to her again, giving her another quiet look before he holds the bottle of whiskey up, tilting it towards her in offering. ]
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right now the silence between them carries a different note, something tinged with a heavy melancholy that drags at his feet, makes the offer of the bottle seem more like a herculean effort than it usually would be.
she smiles, because she has to, something exasperated and wry. door shut behind her she steps up to take his offer, curling her hand around his to guide the lip of the bottle up to her own. she'll take a swig, keeping hold of his eyes too; a silent acknowledgment that she's in this now, joining him for whatever it is and will be.
and when she finishes, she'll offer her own hand out towards the only seats available in the small room — her bed. have a seat, get cozy. he doesn't have to be anywhere he doesn't want to be. ]
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when she finishes her drink, he moves in for one of his own, lips taking his own swig where her lips had been, a continued shared look before he responds to the motion of her invitation. with a slight lick across his lips to taste the remnants of whiskey there, he finishes off the very few steps it takes to move within the small confinement of the room, his body somehow seeming even larger when it sits upon the edge of her small bed.
his eyes peer to the space next to him before drifting back to her, like he already knows where she's going to go before she gets there, every motion, every movement, every thought, etched in mere glances before they're performed. envoy intuition would be the excuse at any other moment, but there's no presence of that here, only the wordless performance of two minds that have seemed to learn one another while he hadn't been looking. ]
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there's a story at the bottom of this bottle;
those are the evenings she spends in the saloon, tucking herself into her own little table to try and let the tempered chaos of the space distract her from herself. this particular one sees the aid of a few bottles of beer... perhaps even one too many.
when she spots him entering the saloon and noticing her, she meets his eye for an entire second before she looks away, like that will somehow erase from his notice the flush of her cheeks, the emptiness of the bottles in front of her. she's not ashamed by any means, but it isn't lost on her how this situation is often in the reverse when it comes to them. ]
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which proves ironic when he enters into the saloon tonight and instantly has his eyes locked upon a particular one seated at one of the table on her own, a cluster of bottles keeping her company, the very same woman that's actually succeeded in occupying a few of his nights in their entirety, though for reasons completely different than what he'd originally been seeking out.
rather than heading straight to the bar counter for a drink as he's usually wont to do, kovacs works his way over to her table, moving with a casual air almost as if he'd intended to meet her there this entire time, despite the way she turns her eyes away, even sliding into the seat beside her without asking for permission first. ]
This seat taken? [ alright, so maybe he'll ask after he's already taken it. ]
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had it? ]
You must be tired of this view by now.
[ enough days seated across each other in their dingy little office, but her words aren't nearly as accusatory as she'd intended them to be, but rather more defensive because she knows it is a new sight in its own way — her hair loose around her face, freckled cheeks flushed from overindulging, stuffed into a fitted dress courtesy of a certain fashion-forward time traveller — and that it should leave her feeling self-conscious, but the beers have left her bones feeling heavy enough she doesn't manage more than a slight shift in her seat.
then suddenly she's leaning forward, like she's sharing a secret. ]
I should warn you. I've been drinking.
[ but what she's actually warning him for she... doesn't elaborate. from the slow blink she gives him, it could very well be she'd already forgotten. ]
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only, he hasn't actually felt himself tired of it at all, even in times where he might roll his eyes at some of her more nagging statements, either scolding him for his behavior or overt snark, or to eat some food despite the ration shortage going around the town. seeing her from day to day has been one of the few things around here he could actually rely on in being familiar and not catapulting him right into a state of frustration.
what does differ is the style in which he's seeing her, recognizing some of the makeup styles that had been previewed that night in the office, only it's now paired with a fashion shift too. ]
Have you? Didn't notice.
[ pulling his hat off of his head to rest it on the opposite end of the table, his brow raises playfully, considering the abundance of bottles in front of her; he's seen her drink a number of times already, but never to this quantity. plucking the one directly in front of her that still has some liquid inside, he brings it to his own lips, taking a long sip while looking at her. ]
Why, should I be worried?
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should he be worried? marta has no clue anymore. she's already lost the plot of this story, and they haven't even begun yet. ultimately, she decides on— ]
No. Just that I've had a head start.
[ because it seems he's joining her now, easing himself into yet another part of her routine with an ease she might have envied if she weren't so perplexed by it. yet apparently not perplexed enough to question it. ]
How's that body's alcohol tolerance?
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she woke me from a comatose sleep, took my hand for i was in too deep;
but with the passing days, he threads the similarities more and more, in ways that hadn't initially been so obvious, the ash upon the ground never quite floating away with the wind, lingering as though it's designated itself to haunt the town for the foreseeable future.
when he dreams, it's never a surprise to find the ash there too. but now it's intertwined with the recent memories of scorpion's bend, a twist to the way he stands in the middle of its central street, its false citizens carrying about their usual routine as he'd grown accustomed to seeing day by day. all at once, they start to scream, fingers beginning to claw at each other's skin like animals, howling with feral cries.
Monsters — we're the monsters! they scream, destroying one another before they collapse on the ground, bodies piling on bodies.
the ash rains from above, always gentle like snow, like it shields away the horror of the bloody scene. but tonight it isn't over. amongst the corpses, there she stands — quell.
in his head, he hears a voice. xichen utters quietly, He told me that pulsefire is used to clean out towns by bandits who are looking for treasure. It leaves nothing living behind.
quell raises up her arm, fingers reaching out to him. Tak— suddenly she burns, too fast to even suffer, flames engulfing her into ash. kovacs screams, but he can't move forward. his feet remain trapped beneath the corpses.
Tak— he hears again. a different voice. he turns to see reileen, his sister reaching out with her fingers the same way quell had done. once more, the pulsefire burns her to nothing.
yet again, Tak— and he turns to see clara standing there. he shakes his head frantically, thinking no, no, no, but all at once, she's lost in the fire.
his body shakes, thinking there can't be more, but then, Tak—
with a slow turn, marta stands with her eyes on him. once again, wide and almost pleading with her worry, the soft stare that mirrors into his own eyes. this time, it's him that's reaching, arm outstretched trying to get to her before it's too late.
the pulsefire burns. ]
No — ! [ he screams out, body trembling, skin damp with sweat, as he sits up from his jarring startle, peering around to find himself in that cramp little office, still on the small mattress he'd found and shoved into the corner for them to camp in. and when he turns, breaths panting heavily, marta's there beside him, untouched by pulsefire, not burned into ash, but alive and breathing. ]
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(maybe it's just him.)
she doesn't wake when he does, but the second after, practically dragged out of her own slumber by his shudder, his shout. by the time her eyes fly open he's there, sitting up and looking down at her like he's just seen a ghost.
or is it that he thinks he's looking at one now? ]
Tak. I'm okay. [ she remembers the nickname that he'd told her, though she takes care to use it sparingly, like it's some delicate, precious secret he's entrusted to her, even though she knows that's hardly true. still, it's moments like these that feel necessary to use it, and use it she does with the soft, raspiness of a voice still thick with sleep.
she sits up, reaches out with a hand left chilled by the unforgiving desert night, but it burns when she rests it against his cheek, slick with sweat. ] You're okay, [ she reminds him steadily. her other hand comes up, framing his face. ] Just breathe.
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with her aid, his breath begins to slowly steady, albeit still deep with quiet sighs, and he brings up his own hands to slide against her wrists, slim and soft to the touch. with closed eyes, his fingers rise against her knuckles, feeling out the curve of the bones, pressing gently to brings her palms further against his cheeks.
he breathes. once and then again. inhale. exhale. she's here. she's alive.
even as he calms, he doesn't open his eyes, simply feeling her, letting him soak up her presence through touch. he doesn't trust his sight, relying on her heat to tell him what's real. ]
You were right. [ he says quietly through the silent air, the room empty save for the space they take up together in this corner. ] I — I see it. The ash. I see it everywhere.
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at his confession, her heart aches, thumbs sweeping across the high points of his cheeks, wiping away those phantom tears. ]
There's no ash here, Takeshi.
[ her voice is quiet, sincere. tipping forward till their foreheads touch, til a subtle shift of her head has their noses brush. if touch is what anchors him, she'll not be greedy. ]
It's just you and me. I promise.
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it's just you and me. and he believes it. nothing else needs to be real except this.
and for a moment, that's all he allows, not even taking a chance on speaking again until he knows for sure, until his heart slows down to something more comfortable. if his hands move, it's only to roll light caresses to the back of hers, thumb offering lazy circular strokes to the bone of her wrist.
(if i lose every other memory, just let me keep this, his mind briefly wanders.)
with a swallow, he finally parts his lips to speak again. ]
I've been seeing it more often again. Ever since we lost the town. [ he sighs, letting his breath wash over hers. ] I keep thinking about ... old man Branson. Way he lost everyone he cared about and survived, living in his guilt. Way he couldn't save anyone, so a part of him tried to forget it somehow.
[ quiet again, and then, ] What if — what if that's just me too? What if I can't save anyone and I just get stuck with the ghosts?