[ 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. ]
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. ]