[ his fingers still with a pause when she makes that sudden confession — i killed him. it's the way they suddenly leave her lips, words that don't quite fit coming from someone like marta, like she might just simply be reading out dialogue from one of her books rather than referring to something pulled from her own past.
when it comes to killing, kovacs has no place for judgment, and even in light of the death of a friend or a sacrifice, his experiences hold plenty of weight. but this is hardly about what he's used to, or even what he feels about it; there's a pulsing grip on her as she speaks through it, recounting the details with a visible pain in her eyes turned away and searching before they seek to find an answer in his, with the tremble of her voice that comes paired with the recollection of the memory.
he knows what he thinks even before she's done with her story, but his lips say nothing, waiting for her to seek him out in this, until she presents him with the question that finally tells him something that's been unspoken in all the time he's known her — how she feels in looking upon her own reflection.
so often, she looks at him when he speaks, assures him of things like worth and hope, but so little does he see how she takes it upon herself. ]
You didn't let him do anything. [ he responds quietly, finding her eyes with a returning soft gaze of his own, steady and focused. ] He made his choice. And it sounds like — like however differently things might have gone, he still would have made that choice for you. Because he cared about you.
[ giving up your life for someone else, making that decision without a sliver of doubt, just for the assurance that they'll be okay, that they'll be protected — he knows that more than he's wanting to confess. ]
We're always ... going to be handed some really shitty cards, Marta, and the — the curse about this place is that, the whole reason we're even here, it forces us to torment ourselves with the question, "what if?" or "why couldn't I make the better choice then?" but, the truth is, it's not about whether what happened makes you a good or bad person.
[ he lifts his fingers, free from the cloth, to bring his own bare skin upon her cheek, a mirror to the way she'd done the very same to him in recent days, his own not quite as soft as her own in their texture, though the care in the gesture attempts to make up for the difference. gently, he brushes back the dark, tousled strands of hair, wild and loose from the night's chaos, thumb stroking a touch along skin now freshly cleaned of blood. ]
It just makes you human. [ made of jagged little pieces. (just like him.) ] And it's okay to let yourself be that.
no subject
when it comes to killing, kovacs has no place for judgment, and even in light of the death of a friend or a sacrifice, his experiences hold plenty of weight. but this is hardly about what he's used to, or even what he feels about it; there's a pulsing grip on her as she speaks through it, recounting the details with a visible pain in her eyes turned away and searching before they seek to find an answer in his, with the tremble of her voice that comes paired with the recollection of the memory.
he knows what he thinks even before she's done with her story, but his lips say nothing, waiting for her to seek him out in this, until she presents him with the question that finally tells him something that's been unspoken in all the time he's known her — how she feels in looking upon her own reflection.
so often, she looks at him when he speaks, assures him of things like worth and hope, but so little does he see how she takes it upon herself. ]
You didn't let him do anything. [ he responds quietly, finding her eyes with a returning soft gaze of his own, steady and focused. ] He made his choice. And it sounds like — like however differently things might have gone, he still would have made that choice for you. Because he cared about you.
[ giving up your life for someone else, making that decision without a sliver of doubt, just for the assurance that they'll be okay, that they'll be protected — he knows that more than he's wanting to confess. ]
We're always ... going to be handed some really shitty cards, Marta, and the — the curse about this place is that, the whole reason we're even here, it forces us to torment ourselves with the question, "what if?" or "why couldn't I make the better choice then?" but, the truth is, it's not about whether what happened makes you a good or bad person.
[ he lifts his fingers, free from the cloth, to bring his own bare skin upon her cheek, a mirror to the way she'd done the very same to him in recent days, his own not quite as soft as her own in their texture, though the care in the gesture attempts to make up for the difference. gently, he brushes back the dark, tousled strands of hair, wild and loose from the night's chaos, thumb stroking a touch along skin now freshly cleaned of blood. ]
It just makes you human. [ made of jagged little pieces. (just like him.) ] And it's okay to let yourself be that.