[ 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. ]
[ she's moving after him before he even finishes getting his eyes back on her, because he knows her even better than she knows him, and maybe by now she can lay a little claim to that, after everything, after all they've shared.
the way the little bed is set up in the room reminds her a lot of her bed on the station, however little she uses both. a single shoved up against the wall, tucked into the corner so that the foot of the bed rests against the adjacent wall, it allows for her to lean up against the cool wood and draw her knees up so she can face him. predictably, the room feels so much smaller with another body in it, but rather than feel suffocated by it, marta lets it comfort her. suddenly all the quiet spaces that her mind would hasten to fill up with thoughts are now occupied. and maybe it should concern her how comfortable it feels to have him there, but that's not a thought process she's eager to investigate just yet.
when she speaks, it's not with any intention to prod or pry or pressure him into filling the space. rather it's an offer — one she knows he knows has always been on the table, one that doesn't need to be said and yet made all the more genuine because of it. ]
[ he hadn't recognized the discomfort of a room's emptiness until they talked about it, forcing him to start sense it every time he opened his eyes, all the more alert about the lack of space taken up aside from his own body. kovacs had always considered himself skilled enough to handle things alone, initially unaware of just how much quell instilled in him the lesson of a necessary pack, of having the extra aid, the support. it's easy enough to acknowledge it for a fight, but in everything else — sometimes it becomes more obvious just how much he actually hates being alone.
if they spent the rest of the night saying nothing at all, he'd be fine with that, but it doesn't necessarily ruin anything when she does speak up, letting the words linger as he settles the bottle to sit between his thighs, hand still wrapped around the neck.
his eyes fall to the floor, letting the seconds tick. fighting loneliness is one thing, but being honest about himself, about the ache that's brought him here, it's an entirely different step that doesn't come as natural. if it were anyone else, he might just shake his head, letting the burdens drown in continued swigs of whiskey. ]
I talked to Clara tonight.
[ his voice remains quiet but with the peace of the room, it's still plenty clear in the emptiness of the air, the simple exhale that follows almost just as loud, just by the confession of those words. they've never talked about her before, but he knows she's aware of what's happened between them, enough of it anyway, if his whisper of her name when he'd fallen asleep at the station had given enough of a clue. ]
[ whether or not he took her up on her offer — whether or not he even answered — it would have had no bearing on his welcome here. he could stay as long as he wanted, as long as he needed, spend the whole night mired in his thoughts and she would have remained a quiet companion throughout it all.
not everyone likes to talk things out. she's still trying to figure out whether he does, so it's a pleasant enough surprise to hear him respond. what he answers with is not a surprise in and of itself, but it makes the admission no less heavy. marta can't say she's very good at giving advice, or anything of the sort. but she can listen. and sometimes that can be enough.
she pushes away from the wall, folds her legs crossed and leans her elbows down so she can be more present in the conversation, show him that even if she doesn't quite know what to say, she's here. and hope maybe that can be enough. ]
[ he isn't anticipating any kind of advice or any kind of answer that would somehow relieve the aching pressure of the night, not when it's just a touch of a much bigger problem, the conversation he'd ha with clara only having fueled the pain of a different kind of secret he's keeping. even with marta, he isn't sure the worth in confessing that particular one tonight.
but it's enough that she's here, because if it weren't for her, he'd just be surrounded by ghosts, by whispers from quell or even rei, their voices translating the judgment he casts on himself. it's a different kind of torment.
when she shifts, his eyes turn to give her a glance, exhaling a quiet breath. ]
I wanted her to hate me. When she wanted to end it, I ... said terrible things to her so that it'd keep her away. Because it — it would have been harder if we stayed close. Even though that's what she still wants, I — [ his thumb circles the lip of the bottle, his eyes falling to it. maybe it's the whiskey keeping his own lips loose.
there's a million things that come to mind. the deal that he made for clara, the secret he's trying to keep, the memories that will eventually fade, the way he wants to protect her, the way he wants to protect the doctor too. it's all the reasons he tells himself constantly, reasons for pushing her away, and yet when he parts his mouth again to speak — ] I don't want the reminder that I wasn't enough.
[ she doesn't know what to make of the tone of his voice. the one that sounds like what he tells her is some dirty notion he shouldn't even be acknowledging in words, and maybe that's what hurts the most about this. the idea that this — pulling away, pushing away, keeping his distance — is somehow something selfish.
and maybe it is, in a way. but maybe there's no better time to be selfish than when someone's giving you back your own heart.
marta doesn't think she's very good at giving advice, but she knows someone who is. ]
My mother used to say, people come to you broken. And it's not your job to fix them. But you can be there. And all those jagged little pieces left behind, you can find ways to fit into them. Maybe make something a little more whole together.
[ she bites down on her lip for a moment, debating the sensibility of her next move. in the end she just goes for it, reaches out, sets a hand over his own — a light but present weight to help anchor him down. ]
All the parts of you that are enough... They just don't fit the parts of her that wants.
[ and you can't give what you don't have. no matter how badly either of you wish you had it. ]
So it's okay. It's okay to keep those parts for yourself. You're allowed to save yourself too.
[ for him, it isn't actually a question as to whether or not he's enough; he knows that he isn't, that any chance of him being worthy of any semblance of happiness died away in the ashes at stronghold, amongst the remnants of the only people he ever truly considered to be family, amongst all that remains of quellcrest falconer, the only woman who ever actually saw him as something more than the ctac soldier, than the envoy, than the killer.
what he'd had with clara was a mere mishap, a span of several weeks where he believed the chance wasn't truly over, a few passing moments of genuine belief for more, until reality had come crashing down with the reminder that everything had been a fleeting fantasy of what he wanted but not of what actually is. keeping away from clara for such a selfish purpose, it's all he has left of that temporary dream, like there's a sliver of himself that still thinks there's a chance for him — even if he knows it won't matter once his memories continue to disappear one at a time. naive and childish, but he has little else left of himself through this.
it's why he's genuinely surprised when marta responds to him, not only with words, but with honest comfort. the touch of her fingers upon his own steal away the fullness of his attention, no possibility of looking away now as his gaze drifts back to her, the bottle in his lap forgotten as he takes in her words — you're allowed to save yourself too.
being told he and clara don't fit together based on the things they want isn't a surprise (even more true with the way he's been handling certain things, with hiding the truth about the change to his deal, with knowing it won't at all be what she wants), but he doesn't know what to do with the attention in what it means to heal him through this ("i'm not here to save anyone.""not even yourself?"). he'd decided on saving clara, something he still doesn't regret even if he wants to maintain a physical distance with her, but him — he hasn't been making bets on being saved.
her fingers are warm upon his own, and he hates that the need is still there, the need for connection, to be seen by someone, to not be forgotten the way that he'll soon forget everything else. his knuckles nudge against her fingertips, like he's almost tempted to lace them as he catches her eyes, but he holds back, settled with a light caress and quiet again for a lasting moment before finding his voice again. ]
Am I? [ he asks quietly, like question is almost genuine towards her, even if he already has his own answer. ] I don't ... I don't know what you see when you look at me. But it's not — I'm not worth — [ he swallows. ] I can't actually be saved, Marta.
[ what does she see? even now, she still doesn't know. and she is used to being the one observing, on the outside looking in and noticing without being noticed in turn. but as her world grew bigger in the span of a dream, marta's understanding of people had been left struggling to catch up. there's a lot they've bared to each other in that time, but she knows there's still that much more they carry close. dirty shameful secrets that feels better unsaid, ignored.
all marta knows is the man he wants her to. the man he's slowly unraveled in front of her since that christmas night, a man far more fragile than he cares to be, but so much bigger than her small hands can contain. if she holds too tightly, will he break? but if she doesn't hold tight enough, he'll surely slip past.
(he says worth like it's a dirty word, and her heart aches to hear it. like the hands he's placed himself in before were too careless to steady their hold.)
maybe what she'll see will only be what he chooses to show her. and maybe that's the point. that it isn't so much what she sees, but the fact he chooses to show her at all.
right now she sees what she saw before — a heart hurting. and she's always been too much of a nurturer for her own good. ]
Two months ago, I didn't think aliens existed. Now I'm on a different planet, probably in a different universe, talking to a man from a world and a time so different from my own.
[ there's a desperation in her tone that doesn't match the eerily calm quiet of his own. like the quieter he gets, the more she feels she has to be louder, to be heard over whatever storm has to be raging inside him now. gone is the carefully crafted silence that had been so comfortable before; gone, too, is the ready acceptance of dismissal she so often carries on her like armor. and sure, maybe he still won't hear her, but this time it won't be because she isn't trying to be heard.
seeing how her touch seemed to bring him closer, away from wherever it is the dark parts of his mind is pulling him towards, she reaches out once more — featherlight fingertips to his cheek, gentle where her locking gaze is intense. ]
After everything you've seen, and knowing that's not even anywhere close to being all there is... how can you still be so sure?
[ the sudden passion in her words throw him for a loop, used to the calm of her speech when the conversation carries a weight like this. paired with the light press of a touch against his cheek, he knows that no amount of whiskey would start making him this dizzy, overwhelmed by the attention after he had just sought to discard it entirely, hopelessness in his breath while she fights his immediate dismissal with possibilities.
suddenly, he's terrified, recalling the defeat he had first entered the station with, reminded that clara had breathed life into him with pretty words, dangled promises of a life he couldn't have, of hope, the same way he'd felt that fleeting happiness living with quell and the envoys for such a short time before having it all stripped from him then too. the deal reminds him that he's made his choices, that the reality is never going to align with a future where it doesn't all end in tragedy for him — luck isn't a word i'd associate with myself, he'd once said.
all at once, he wants to yell, breath falling slightly shakier, to snap at marta for trying to pull him in like every other siren song has done in the past, for carrying a luring warmth in her fingertips, for wanting to instill hope in him again after he's already accepted there's no worth in what he has left, leaving his memories to the wolves of the orbs to swallow and devour until he's nothing but a speck.
his own hand raises up to cover hers, with the initial intent of pulling her away, but the large spread of his palm nearly coats the entirety of her skin, pressing her in closer against his cheek before he can stop himself. ]
Don't. [ he whispers without the harshness the word is meant to carry, slipping more like a plea than a demand, opposing the message sent by the wrap of his fingers to hers, gentle but almost desperate to keep them where they are. after everything that's happened tonight, after what it took to push away clara, he isn't sure how much fight he has in himself to isolate himself all over again.
still, he manages to meet her eyes, hers carrying an intensity that trap his own, older than they give away, tired. ] Don't try to give me hope.
[ it isn't nearly as immediate as its wont to be, but not long after her passionate declaration does marta find herself reeling from a strange sort of first-hand, second-hand embarrassment. like she'd only just seen and heard herself and now blanching at the realization she'd said all she said. the fear that it might have been too much, too soon, too unwanted — that comes soon after, of course, and it flutters wildly into a brief panic when he reaches for her hand, when he says what he says — don't — and
and then she hears his voice, the careful, delicate wrapping around words that were meant to be so much stronger than they were laid out. and she feels the press of his palm all around her hand and she remembers — yes, that's right. sometimes in order to heal, it's got to hurt a little first. sometimes when you've got to press right where it hurts to know what to do next. ]
Hope doesn't have to be a dirty word, Kovacs. Isn't that why we're all here? Because of hope?
[ they each in their own way saw what reality had in store for them, and they dared to believe they could do something about it. if that isn't hope, what is?
her expression softens, and so too does her voice. knowing he hears her now, she doesn't struggle to speak above the clamor of his shaky breath. he knows she's here, feels her presence in both his hands. carefully, she lets the hand along his cheek fit a little more snugly, cradling where she'd once been tentative and unsure. ]
Maybe that hope is a little hard to carry alone right now... but that's okay. Because you're not alone.
[ no matter what he thinks. no matter what he believes he deserves. she's here. he came to her and she's here. ]
So take your time, okay? I'll carry it for you till you're ready again.
[ he wonders if she'd still say that if she knew, if he told her that even though he's here, the hope he has isn't enough to spare some for himself, that being here for him means giving up even more than just his time, that his memories will be gradually taken with it. but somehow, confessing that to her now feels like it might simply deprive her of whatever hope she's carrying, and for all the pessimism he tends to represent, he wants to do well to preserve hers.
because when she gives him that reminder — you're not alone — he knows there's a reason he's here at all, a reason he didn't just go back to his own room to down that bottle by himself. it isn't fair for her to carry anything for him, but he's still driven by a selfish craving, the need to not wake up in an empty room, already comforted by the familiarity of how she fills the space next to him, from nights in the infirmary with a book in her hand or perched against the edge of that rickety old desk in an office they've made theirs.
or right here, in the quiet of her room, with her fingers providing a gentle heat against his cheek, tucked by the cover of his palm, like the touch only seems to make the soft echo of her words louder.
he doesn't immediately say anything at all, giving his answer in a slow, almost reluctant nod, still resistant to letting her bear a weight that should be his responsibility, but it's accepting of it all the same, quiet and still with a silent watch of his eyes on hers before he sighs, tilting forward.
gently, he tucks his forehead against hers, like the exhaustion of the night's emotions swerving in all corners has caught up with him, shoulders sinking as he leans into her with that gentle bracing of skin to skin, closing his eyes, letting her every word sit with him, feeling he has no right to it, even as his fingers slide gently against her knuckles. ]
It's Tak. [ he whispers in the quiet space between them, almost feeling seemingly out of place but drifting to his mind as he hears her call him kovacs again in his mind, like it almost doesn't fit with the feel of her lasting touch upon his cheek. ] My first name — it's Takeshi.
[ the nod is more than what she could have asked for in response, so feeling move and lean into her almost feels like too much. but the breath that catches in her throat leaves in a soft exhale, relieved and and grateful. she's not foolish enough to think this is anywhere close to the end of the problems that brought him to her in the first place, but just maybe it means there's a new chapter ahead. another arc just beginning. ]
Takeshi. Tak.
[ she tries them out like a pair of new shoes — feeling shaky and tentative and like she's learning to walk all over again. tests the weight of them on her tongue and smiles around the ease with which her lips move to form each syllable.
in the air between them, limited as it is now that he's bridged that final gap, she can feel something shift, lock gently into place. (jagged little pieces finding spaces to fit into.)
her next movements are subtle ones — a nuzzle against his brow, a sweep of her thumb against his cheek. ]
[ when she says his name, it doesn't out of place, even if she's testing it on her lips. they've been around each other so consistently each and every single day for a while now that the familiarity has already shaped itself to fit around the sound, like it almost doesn't even feel like the first time she says it. even the closeness to it, tentative until he feels the shift of her exhale, a signal that the comfort is shared, doesn't seem out of place.
despite the night having clawed at him from the inside for the past several hours, his body feels calm, his breath steadying as he relaxes against her. maybe this isn't what she meant by carrying things for him, hardly meaning to carry him in the literal sense, but he feels a bit more solid with her to lean against.
he hums quietly at her question, lips pursing into a brief smile, subtle for a moment. by now, hearing stories from her feels the call of an old friend. ] Yeah. Tell me.
[ she didn't think he'd refuse, even if he hadn't been in the mood for one, but she still lets out a little smile of relief to hear him acquiesce. she can feel a little more of his weight now and while she's happy he's relaxing more, she can't let him get too comfortable this way. no no, after a night like he's had, there's really only one way to enjoy a story.
so with one last little squeeze to his cheek, she moves to draw away. the warmth they'd been beginning to cultivate together starts to dissipate with the return of distance, but it's not something marta means to lose for very long. that much becomes obvious when she shifts on the bed, sliding her legs over the edge, and her lap she pats once, twice. she lifts her brows at him, her meaning clear.
[ he doesn't consider how she may prepare herself to tell it, but he isn't thinking ahead, lingering in each moment as he finally begins to ground himself, possibly even sobering up a bit now that he's been able to clear up his head just from the simmering silence. it's only with the light squeeze at his cheek and marta's withdrawl that he even lifts his head up watching her carefully.
his eyes follow her hand as she pats at her thigh, lifting his gaze to catch her raised brow before raising his own almost in question. the stare lingers like a silent really? even if there's been enough gestures tonight to address their mutual comfort with particular closeness.
when he finally exhales a breath, it's with a brief sounding chuckle in it, sitting on the invitation for just a moment longer before he snags the bottle from his lap and leans over to set it on the closest table. carefully kicking off his boots to leave them on the floor, he then lifts up his legs onto the bed, leaning himself over to bring his head against her lap, eyes peering up with a silent good? in his eyes. ]
[ the smile on her lips is equal parts approving and smug, pleased to be humored but also just as happy they can both now settle into the rest of the evening with the unmistakable understanding that he can stay, that she wants him there. already missing the feeling of him beneath her hands, she lets one settle over his shoulder while the other weaves its way into those errant strands of hair that always falls just over his brow. in slow, soothing motions she starts to comb his hair back, fingernails lightly trailing over his scalp. ]
This one's an old favorite, [ she starts, voice soft like a lullaby, sinking into a rhythm that's become almost second-nature now — theirs. ]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
the way the little bed is set up in the room reminds her a lot of her bed on the station, however little she uses both. a single shoved up against the wall, tucked into the corner so that the foot of the bed rests against the adjacent wall, it allows for her to lean up against the cool wood and draw her knees up so she can face him. predictably, the room feels so much smaller with another body in it, but rather than feel suffocated by it, marta lets it comfort her. suddenly all the quiet spaces that her mind would hasten to fill up with thoughts are now occupied. and maybe it should concern her how comfortable it feels to have him there, but that's not a thought process she's eager to investigate just yet.
when she speaks, it's not with any intention to prod or pry or pressure him into filling the space. rather it's an offer — one she knows he knows has always been on the table, one that doesn't need to be said and yet made all the more genuine because of it. ]
We can talk about it, you know. If you want.
no subject
if they spent the rest of the night saying nothing at all, he'd be fine with that, but it doesn't necessarily ruin anything when she does speak up, letting the words linger as he settles the bottle to sit between his thighs, hand still wrapped around the neck.
his eyes fall to the floor, letting the seconds tick. fighting loneliness is one thing, but being honest about himself, about the ache that's brought him here, it's an entirely different step that doesn't come as natural. if it were anyone else, he might just shake his head, letting the burdens drown in continued swigs of whiskey. ]
I talked to Clara tonight.
[ his voice remains quiet but with the peace of the room, it's still plenty clear in the emptiness of the air, the simple exhale that follows almost just as loud, just by the confession of those words. they've never talked about her before, but he knows she's aware of what's happened between them, enough of it anyway, if his whisper of her name when he'd fallen asleep at the station had given enough of a clue. ]
She ... said she missed me.
no subject
not everyone likes to talk things out. she's still trying to figure out whether he does, so it's a pleasant enough surprise to hear him respond. what he answers with is not a surprise in and of itself, but it makes the admission no less heavy. marta can't say she's very good at giving advice, or anything of the sort. but she can listen. and sometimes that can be enough.
she pushes away from the wall, folds her legs crossed and leans her elbows down so she can be more present in the conversation, show him that even if she doesn't quite know what to say, she's here. and hope maybe that can be enough. ]
That must have been hard to hear.
no subject
but it's enough that she's here, because if it weren't for her, he'd just be surrounded by ghosts, by whispers from quell or even rei, their voices translating the judgment he casts on himself. it's a different kind of torment.
when she shifts, his eyes turn to give her a glance, exhaling a quiet breath. ]
I wanted her to hate me. When she wanted to end it, I ... said terrible things to her so that it'd keep her away. Because it — it would have been harder if we stayed close. Even though that's what she still wants, I — [ his thumb circles the lip of the bottle, his eyes falling to it. maybe it's the whiskey keeping his own lips loose.
there's a million things that come to mind. the deal that he made for clara, the secret he's trying to keep, the memories that will eventually fade, the way he wants to protect her, the way he wants to protect the doctor too. it's all the reasons he tells himself constantly, reasons for pushing her away, and yet when he parts his mouth again to speak — ] I don't want the reminder that I wasn't enough.
no subject
and maybe it is, in a way. but maybe there's no better time to be selfish than when someone's giving you back your own heart.
marta doesn't think she's very good at giving advice, but she knows someone who is. ]
My mother used to say, people come to you broken. And it's not your job to fix them. But you can be there. And all those jagged little pieces left behind, you can find ways to fit into them. Maybe make something a little more whole together.
[ she bites down on her lip for a moment, debating the sensibility of her next move. in the end she just goes for it, reaches out, sets a hand over his own — a light but present weight to help anchor him down. ]
All the parts of you that are enough... They just don't fit the parts of her that wants.
[ and you can't give what you don't have. no matter how badly either of you wish you had it. ]
So it's okay. It's okay to keep those parts for yourself. You're allowed to save yourself too.
no subject
what he'd had with clara was a mere mishap, a span of several weeks where he believed the chance wasn't truly over, a few passing moments of genuine belief for more, until reality had come crashing down with the reminder that everything had been a fleeting fantasy of what he wanted but not of what actually is. keeping away from clara for such a selfish purpose, it's all he has left of that temporary dream, like there's a sliver of himself that still thinks there's a chance for him — even if he knows it won't matter once his memories continue to disappear one at a time. naive and childish, but he has little else left of himself through this.
it's why he's genuinely surprised when marta responds to him, not only with words, but with honest comfort. the touch of her fingers upon his own steal away the fullness of his attention, no possibility of looking away now as his gaze drifts back to her, the bottle in his lap forgotten as he takes in her words — you're allowed to save yourself too.
being told he and clara don't fit together based on the things they want isn't a surprise (even more true with the way he's been handling certain things, with hiding the truth about the change to his deal, with knowing it won't at all be what she wants), but he doesn't know what to do with the attention in what it means to heal him through this ("i'm not here to save anyone." "not even yourself?"). he'd decided on saving clara, something he still doesn't regret even if he wants to maintain a physical distance with her, but him — he hasn't been making bets on being saved.
her fingers are warm upon his own, and he hates that the need is still there, the need for connection, to be seen by someone, to not be forgotten the way that he'll soon forget everything else. his knuckles nudge against her fingertips, like he's almost tempted to lace them as he catches her eyes, but he holds back, settled with a light caress and quiet again for a lasting moment before finding his voice again. ]
Am I? [ he asks quietly, like question is almost genuine towards her, even if he already has his own answer. ] I don't ... I don't know what you see when you look at me. But it's not — I'm not worth — [ he swallows. ] I can't actually be saved, Marta.
no subject
all marta knows is the man he wants her to. the man he's slowly unraveled in front of her since that christmas night, a man far more fragile than he cares to be, but so much bigger than her small hands can contain. if she holds too tightly, will he break? but if she doesn't hold tight enough, he'll surely slip past.
(he says worth like it's a dirty word, and her heart aches to hear it. like the hands he's placed himself in before were too careless to steady their hold.)
maybe what she'll see will only be what he chooses to show her. and maybe that's the point. that it isn't so much what she sees, but the fact he chooses to show her at all.
right now she sees what she saw before — a heart hurting. and she's always been too much of a nurturer for her own good. ]
Two months ago, I didn't think aliens existed. Now I'm on a different planet, probably in a different universe, talking to a man from a world and a time so different from my own.
[ there's a desperation in her tone that doesn't match the eerily calm quiet of his own. like the quieter he gets, the more she feels she has to be louder, to be heard over whatever storm has to be raging inside him now. gone is the carefully crafted silence that had been so comfortable before; gone, too, is the ready acceptance of dismissal she so often carries on her like armor. and sure, maybe he still won't hear her, but this time it won't be because she isn't trying to be heard.
seeing how her touch seemed to bring him closer, away from wherever it is the dark parts of his mind is pulling him towards, she reaches out once more — featherlight fingertips to his cheek, gentle where her locking gaze is intense. ]
After everything you've seen, and knowing that's not even anywhere close to being all there is... how can you still be so sure?
[ why not? she says without saying. says who? ]
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suddenly, he's terrified, recalling the defeat he had first entered the station with, reminded that clara had breathed life into him with pretty words, dangled promises of a life he couldn't have, of hope, the same way he'd felt that fleeting happiness living with quell and the envoys for such a short time before having it all stripped from him then too. the deal reminds him that he's made his choices, that the reality is never going to align with a future where it doesn't all end in tragedy for him — luck isn't a word i'd associate with myself, he'd once said.
all at once, he wants to yell, breath falling slightly shakier, to snap at marta for trying to pull him in like every other siren song has done in the past, for carrying a luring warmth in her fingertips, for wanting to instill hope in him again after he's already accepted there's no worth in what he has left, leaving his memories to the wolves of the orbs to swallow and devour until he's nothing but a speck.
his own hand raises up to cover hers, with the initial intent of pulling her away, but the large spread of his palm nearly coats the entirety of her skin, pressing her in closer against his cheek before he can stop himself. ]
Don't. [ he whispers without the harshness the word is meant to carry, slipping more like a plea than a demand, opposing the message sent by the wrap of his fingers to hers, gentle but almost desperate to keep them where they are. after everything that's happened tonight, after what it took to push away clara, he isn't sure how much fight he has in himself to isolate himself all over again.
still, he manages to meet her eyes, hers carrying an intensity that trap his own, older than they give away, tired. ] Don't try to give me hope.
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and then she hears his voice, the careful, delicate wrapping around words that were meant to be so much stronger than they were laid out. and she feels the press of his palm all around her hand and she remembers — yes, that's right. sometimes in order to heal, it's got to hurt a little first. sometimes when you've got to press right where it hurts to know what to do next. ]
Hope doesn't have to be a dirty word, Kovacs. Isn't that why we're all here? Because of hope?
[ they each in their own way saw what reality had in store for them, and they dared to believe they could do something about it. if that isn't hope, what is?
her expression softens, and so too does her voice. knowing he hears her now, she doesn't struggle to speak above the clamor of his shaky breath. he knows she's here, feels her presence in both his hands. carefully, she lets the hand along his cheek fit a little more snugly, cradling where she'd once been tentative and unsure. ]
Maybe that hope is a little hard to carry alone right now... but that's okay. Because you're not alone.
[ no matter what he thinks. no matter what he believes he deserves. she's here. he came to her and she's here. ]
So take your time, okay? I'll carry it for you till you're ready again.
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because when she gives him that reminder — you're not alone — he knows there's a reason he's here at all, a reason he didn't just go back to his own room to down that bottle by himself. it isn't fair for her to carry anything for him, but he's still driven by a selfish craving, the need to not wake up in an empty room, already comforted by the familiarity of how she fills the space next to him, from nights in the infirmary with a book in her hand or perched against the edge of that rickety old desk in an office they've made theirs.
or right here, in the quiet of her room, with her fingers providing a gentle heat against his cheek, tucked by the cover of his palm, like the touch only seems to make the soft echo of her words louder.
he doesn't immediately say anything at all, giving his answer in a slow, almost reluctant nod, still resistant to letting her bear a weight that should be his responsibility, but it's accepting of it all the same, quiet and still with a silent watch of his eyes on hers before he sighs, tilting forward.
gently, he tucks his forehead against hers, like the exhaustion of the night's emotions swerving in all corners has caught up with him, shoulders sinking as he leans into her with that gentle bracing of skin to skin, closing his eyes, letting her every word sit with him, feeling he has no right to it, even as his fingers slide gently against her knuckles. ]
It's Tak. [ he whispers in the quiet space between them, almost feeling seemingly out of place but drifting to his mind as he hears her call him kovacs again in his mind, like it almost doesn't fit with the feel of her lasting touch upon his cheek. ] My first name — it's Takeshi.
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Takeshi. Tak.
[ she tries them out like a pair of new shoes — feeling shaky and tentative and like she's learning to walk all over again. tests the weight of them on her tongue and smiles around the ease with which her lips move to form each syllable.
in the air between them, limited as it is now that he's bridged that final gap, she can feel something shift, lock gently into place. (jagged little pieces finding spaces to fit into.)
her next movements are subtle ones — a nuzzle against his brow, a sweep of her thumb against his cheek. ]
You had a long day. Want to hear a story?
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despite the night having clawed at him from the inside for the past several hours, his body feels calm, his breath steadying as he relaxes against her. maybe this isn't what she meant by carrying things for him, hardly meaning to carry him in the literal sense, but he feels a bit more solid with her to lean against.
he hums quietly at her question, lips pursing into a brief smile, subtle for a moment. by now, hearing stories from her feels the call of an old friend. ] Yeah. Tell me.
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so with one last little squeeze to his cheek, she moves to draw away. the warmth they'd been beginning to cultivate together starts to dissipate with the return of distance, but it's not something marta means to lose for very long. that much becomes obvious when she shifts on the bed, sliding her legs over the edge, and her lap she pats once, twice. she lifts her brows at him, her meaning clear.
well? ]
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his eyes follow her hand as she pats at her thigh, lifting his gaze to catch her raised brow before raising his own almost in question. the stare lingers like a silent really? even if there's been enough gestures tonight to address their mutual comfort with particular closeness.
when he finally exhales a breath, it's with a brief sounding chuckle in it, sitting on the invitation for just a moment longer before he snags the bottle from his lap and leans over to set it on the closest table. carefully kicking off his boots to leave them on the floor, he then lifts up his legs onto the bed, leaning himself over to bring his head against her lap, eyes peering up with a silent good? in his eyes. ]
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This one's an old favorite, [ she starts, voice soft like a lullaby, sinking into a rhythm that's become almost second-nature now — theirs. ]