[ she watches him finish off her beer with a slight purse to her lips, though she can't muster up much energy to say anything about it when he's presenting her with something far more palatable. she watches the waitress swing back around with a fresh bottle of whiskey, settled like a dare between the two of them. ]
Are you trying to get me drunk, Kovacs?
[ not that she's complaining or protesting, given that was more or less what she was trying to do on her own. to honor her fallen soldier beer #4, she reaches for the bottle first. either she misses the waitress setting down the pair of glasses next or she ignores it on purpose, because next she just treats herself to a hearty swig straight from the tap. ]
[ he smiles with her question, something mischievous in the curl of his lips, like he reads it less like it's being asked and more as if it's being challenged. his answer doesn't come immediately, instead watching her take on the bottle without an ounce of hesitation, the occasionally doubtful woman hardly present in a moment of daring certainty, transformative as he watches the tilted upward curve of her neck, tilted to take a drink, as he watches the motion of her swallow. ]
What, a well-behaved girl like you? Wouldn't dare.
[ the sarcasm is inked in every word, sly with the acknowledgement that her good nature doesn't necessarily make her pure, that she's capable of plenty of other behaviors, witnessing it from the moment that she'd opened vocal fire on him with a hail of spanish swears on account of his having accidentally called her at an inappropriate time.
when she's done with the bottle, he reaches in to steal it for himself, taking on a heftier gulp, like he's aiming to catch up, especially on account of his stronger tolerance. once he lowers it again, he can feel the gripping burn in his throat, curling his lip inward to clean it of the damp hint of whiskey left behind. ]
Were you trying to? [ get drunk. the multiple beers are message enough. ]
[ there's a faint twist to her lips when he makes that playful jab at her. she is not, of course, ignorant of the image she often makes to people; she's been called them all โ a goodie two-shoes, an angel, a saint, a prude. the good girl with the good head on her shoulders who wouldn't ever dare do anything wrong. boring, plain. predictable. it doesn't really bother her. she figures if people are going to be thinking about her at all, she'd rather it be something forgettable like that.
now what she doesn't say (and somehow, miraculously, doesn't obviously show) is that that one swig of whiskey is already having its desired effect on her, leaving her feeling spun around and wading in turbulent waters as she struggles to just watch him take a gulp or two his own. if she winds up staring a little longer, a little more intently? it's to help her keep grounded and focused, of course. it has absolutely nothing to do with the slow suck of his lip for the remaining drops of that whiskey, leaving them pinker than they were before.
it's almost a relief when his question shifts things to something a little more somber. sobering, even. ]
Oh, you know. Just one of those nights.
[ marta doesn't get into the habit of feeling sorry for herself, at least not where people can see, but he asks her and of course she tells the truth, only the difference now is she feels like giving more than just a vague half-answer. ]
Some nights the ghosts are louder than I can ignore.
[ but unlike that evening of the bandit attack, marta isn't seeking consolation or comfort. it's a dead horse that deserves to be put to rest by now. if only the voices in her mind will let it. so the answer to his question? yes, that was exactly what she was trying to do. ]
[ though she isn't one to put what weighs her on display โ not in the way that some people have cried out and complained directly into the ears of the entire orber community solely for the sake of attention โ kovacs knows that marta has plenty that she carries silently, hints of it in the ways she's unraveled in private in his company, in the way she otherwise holds herself from day to day, taking a breath and facing forward even when he can see it in her eyes when it all starts to gradually overwhelm her.
she's stronger than she gives herself credit for, but it doesn't mean she isn't allowed this, seeking the escape in ways he's all too guilty in chasing night after night, whether it's diving down to the bottom of a bottle or aiming for a distraction through other means.
he won't ask her to elaborate, to describe any of it, if that isn't what she wants to do. because he knows the difference between needing to get the words out and wanting to drown them out, and it's with a silent glance that he speaks his reply โ i know. setting the bottle back onto the table, he slides it back along the table to place it in front of her, glass scraping against the wood. ]
Came to the right place. Because there's nothing louder than that shitty happy jig they're playing there on the piano โ [ he nods his head, gesturing to the echoing entertainment on the other side of the room, noise to accompany some of the girls on staff here to move into an upbeat dance. ] Try getting that out of your head for the next few days.
[ marta hadn't started the evening with the intention of seeking out a companion for her doubts, as she often never does. she is her mother's daughter to a fault, preferring to carry and cradle her hardships close to her chest than broadcast them for others to see. when so often your weaknesses and vulnerability can be used against you, you learn to hide what you must.
suffice to say she's used to spending these moments alone, but that doesn't make the process any less lonely. it doesn't make her wish for a pair of understanding eyes any less. she wouldn't have called him, but now that he's here... she won't ask him to stay, just like he never has. but she has even less desire to send him away, even if she should. ]
I don't know. [ the lines around her mouth soften a little more, her eyes on him the entire time. ] It kind of grows on you.
[ a second to let it marinate, and then she's following the direction of his nod, watching as some of the tipsier patrons give into the rhythm and join the saloon girls as they wiggle and sway. ]
[ there's so much that they never tend to say, whether it's in asking for company or choosing to not elaborate on the particular things that drag its weight against them. but it's those very things that have never seemed to matter, since a time where just having someone around proved to do more for lightening the load than he might have thought. plenty has been said too, confessions quiet in their rooms when the words needed to be spoken, but they've come without conditions, without agendas, and it almost seems like that's been the course of whatever this is โ something moving at its own pace, steady enough for him to keep up without tripping over his own feet.
but speaking of tripping over feet โ ]
Hell no. [ kovacs nearly snorts, straightening in his seat as he reaches into his coat, pulling out a small box of cigarettes, more old-fashioned than his typical style at the station, with half the reliability of a filter and twice the health risks.
placing one between his lips, he holds it there as he seeks out the matches in his pocket, eyes still on her. ] Do I look like I got legs for that?
[ the fact of the matter is, he could leave whenever he wanted to. if he isn't, she just has to trust and assume that he doesn't want to. and the fact that he doesn't seem to want to... well. that's probably something she should spend more time thinking about than she does. ]
Isn't the expression about two left feet?
[ whiskey bottle back in hand, it's easy work to take another few gulps of that liquid courage. she's on her feet before she has a chance to think about it. the layer of skirts zari had convinced her into that evening sashay around her legs at the first twist of her hips, already beginning to move in time to the upbeat song. ]
Lack of rhythm... Is that a you thing or a sleeve thing?
Well, I don't usually aim for sleeves based on their grace towards dancing, if that's what you're asking.
[ really, when it comes to his priorities, it's never towards anything for the sake of pleasure, not even having any sort of list of hobbies or activities that get considered when he swaps out for a different body. if it isn't fit enough to withstand a fight, then it's probably no good to him. getting himself into a military-grade sleeve of a cop had just been a convenience.
but whatever his body is fit her, hers seems to surprisingly be made to move, watching the impressive ease in which she stands to start swaying her hips. if his eyes momentarily lock towards watching them, his hand holding a lit match stilling in the air before he even gets to light the cigarette, it's not on purpose. ]
[ marta can feel the whiskey slither down her spine like a serpent, following the curvature of her movements. at this point it's all in the hands of the music and the liquor, most of marta's attention still on the man beside her, bringing up a question of logistics that her compromised mind can still somehow focus on, despite it all. ]
You keep your memories, right?
[ hands in her hair, loose tonight in waves leftover from her braids, a 4/4 beat in the song that has her feet automatically falling into a cha cha that would make her mother proud. ]
[ some people have made it more of a complication with bringing in things like back-ups and cloning. but that's an entirely different sort of explanation that would prove to be more of a hassle than something kovacs cares to explain, especially when the technicality of it is far from his mind with the liquor in his belly and the entertainment of the view in front of him.
(he doesn't even think too hard about how that question would bring up a whole other subject altogether, the way his memories eventually won't be kept at all.)
he'd probably be more polite about now staring if marta wasn't looking right back at him, steering his eyes from her hips to the shift of her fingers into her hair, each new movement painting a new picture of the girl he thought he already had all figured out.
when the fire on the match descends along it, forgotten as he holds it, he nearly burns his fingers. ]
[ maintaining eye contact is just about courtesy, isn't it? to let the other party know you're attentive, present in the conversation. it probably has nothing at all to do with the way his lingering gaze gives her more adrenaline than any amount of whiskey ever has or could, making her feel emboldened. stupid. like she would do just about anything to keep it. ]
The music, ceniza.
[ she leans forward, and a gentle flick of her fingers taps out the gathering ash at the end of his cigarette. she doesn't draw back nearly as quickly as she should, but that's all just due to keeping in time with the beat, right? ]
[ it's a little thing but in her mutter of a nickname she's thrown his way more than a few things in the long stretch of hours they've had in each other's company, he realizes the way he tends to enjoy her use of the language, how an evident accent seems to carry the words of her native speech so smoothly off her tongue, almost like they were created just to be spoken by her.
when she taps at his cigarette, his teeth scrape against the damp end pressed to his mouth, inhaling a deeper high of the nicotine before his tongue feels dry, likely from the thirst for another gulp of whiskey.
plucking the stick from his lips, he blows out the smoke slowly, gaze still transfixed. the mention of the music reminds him that he's barely even been listening to it in the last minute. ]
Figured you were just feeling the whiskey. [ that's all it is, he tells himself. ] Or you've done a hell of a job in hiding those moves.
[ the smoke hardly bothers her now, where once she'd rolled her eyes and leaned away each time he dared to light one up in the infirmary. like everything else about him, it's become like a second skin, an extension of herself. it's why she doesn't even feel bad when she reaches out again, taking his hand to twist it around and stub that newly lit cigarette out against the grain of wood. ]
Yeah, because I've had so many reasons to show them before.
[ his hand still in hers, she gives it a little tug, in time to the challenging arch of her brow. ]
[ any other day and he might show some visible disappointment in losing a fresh cigarette, especially since these days, there's no telling when he might simply run out entirely, leaving him to constantly tend to ryker's nasty habit all because he's found himself in a body that craves something he knows he shouldn't have.
tonight, that feeling seems to be pulsing a bit stronger, irrelevant to the cigarette when he doesn't fight her putting it out. his eyes remain caught by the way she's leaned close, aware that he should very well turn away before he stops thinking of reasons to.
she tugs at his hand and he snickers beneath his breath, giving a lazy shake of his head. ]
What did I just tell you? [ ignoring his own words and warning, his fingers curl tighter around hers, standing on his feet. ] I don't dance.
You say a lot of things, [ comes her easy reply, hummed around a note of approval when she sees him rise to his feet. ] It's hard to understand you sometimes with that accent.
[ this close, it would've been easy to pass the playfulness off with another secret little smile, but the booze, the music, the high of his acquiescing hand in hers โ how could she do anything else but grin wide, the kind of smile that crinkles her eyes and warms up her freckles.
at least she doesn't draw him towards the small crowd that had formed, instead sticking to their cozy little circle just beside their table. his other hand she snatches up before he can second-guess his decision, already moving her feet and hips to the music in a dance that's less form and more function. the head-whipping, hips-shaking, shoulders-shimmying kind of dance popular in the last hours of a quinceanera when everyone's had too much booze and cake and no one cares how silly anyone looks anymore.
she eggs and cheers him on the entire time, far more generous than anyone with eyes has any right to be when witnessing his moves, but it's like she said โ it's about the feeling. and right now? well she feels pretty damn good.
so good, in fact, that she doesn't realize her twirl under his arm has her stumbling into the back of another patron, who stands firm and bothered by the little shove. marta trips backwards into kovacs' chest, one hand coming up to stifle the reflexive giggle that escapes her, hastening to put on an appropriately apologetic face when the large man turns to frown at her. ]
Lo siento, [ she manages, biting down on her lip. ] Sorry.
[ kovacs really doesn't dance, no matter what sleeve someone might designate for him, his current tall, bulky frame only making the entire ordeal likely even more awkward, since he isn't built for the natural movements meant to seek a rhythm rather than his more abrupt and swift style of fighting. the only thing that grants him any real form of aid is the connect of marta's fingers in his, forcing him to move with her rather than remaining stilted in place if he were standing with his hands free.
it's hard to say why he chooses to engage in it, but after the weeks they've had together here, playful commands in their office often leading to reluctant compliance, this only seems to be an extension of the sort of rhythm they've already developed, where subtle easy coaxing is all that's required in this branch of trust that typically comes without question.
for a while, he peers down at his feet, trying to pick up on the well-practiced steps of hers, attempting to mirror them since foot work, at least, is amongst his skills, even if it's typically for the purposes of landing a hit. lifting his eyes, it's the motions of movement that prove more difficult, focusing on the study of her hips, only to find himself forgetting the intent of learning to dance when he's more transfixed by the ease and joy of her dancing, paired with the brightness of a smile that he's never seen so wide before.
somehow, for a moment, he does let himself give in to the feeling, to the lack of thinking, burdens lifted from his shoulders to simply move with her, even if he lacks the natural rhythm she carries. when she stumbles though, his reflexes do kick in, one hand still clutching hers as the other presses firm to her hip to keep her upright as her back presses to to his chest. ]
She apologized. [ he states calmly but firm to the other man with a stare that practically warns him to accept the apology and move on before he turns their bodies away, almost protective around her as he looks at her from over her shoulder, fingers still holding onto her. ] You good?
[ all she sees is the corner of the man's mouth twitch before she's pivoted away, facing their little table and bottle of whiskey once more. speaking of whiskey, that slight stumble had the sobering effect of dulling the adrenaline that had been pulsing in her ears like the beat of a drum, so she finds herself chasing another taste with a drawn out suck of her lower lip... or so she tells herself as she does it while glancing back to meet his eyes. ]
Great.
[ she does feel great, even if they're no longer dancing, even if the music has faded slightly, blocked by the large, solid body she is suddenly very acutely aware of being so close to hers.
she swallows suddenly, and she realizes just how dry her mouth has gotten. her mind scrambles for something, anything to say, which is strange all on its own when silence has never been an issue with him. ]
[ the protection feels almost instinctive, shielding her off, like he knows the kind of men who could take something small and enlarge it all for the sake of their own swollen egos. of course, he's sworn looking out for her, even if the promise itself had been a miniature thing, pertaining simply to the way that she isn't capable of lying, but in time, it's become a sort of umbrella for more than he'd realized, like he'd somehow taken on her safety as his responsibility.
whether promises or responsibility are a part of it, he looks over her now, his height leaving him hovering slightly from behind her, just to make sure of it, the hold at her hip lingering for a moment longer than it should before he eases the touch away to redirect it lightly against her elbow. ]
How about we be careful about what kind of friends we're making, huh?
[ sometimes he hates that he's so attuned to detail, that his eyes gaze on the fall of her hair against her shoulder, strands clinging to the exposed skin at her collar, damp from a light sheen of sweat, produced by all the dancing. he hates that he can see the faster rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, how his own chest is brushed close enough to her back for him to feel the quickened beat of her heart, almost unable to discern it from his own.
finally, he takes a slight step back, like the distance is necessary, pulling his touch away from her hand, fingers flexing briefly at his side. ] I'm better fit for drinking.
[ she hadn't meant to fall under his responsibility like that. sure, he had offered and she had accepted, but by now he knows better than anyone that the last thing marta wants is for someone to feel burdened by her — regardless if it's just about her inability to lie or something far greater. seeing the tension around his eyes, firming up the line of his lips has a far more sobering effect than the brush with that other man ever had.
he was the first to put back the distance between them, but once again she meets him halfway by widening it further, moving back towards the table to grab for the whiskey bottle like she isn't extra eager to replace the warmth he'd just taken away with him. (since when has his absence been more of a shock than his presence?) ]
You're overthinking it, [ comes her quiet reply, tipping the bottle over to properly pour him a glass that she soon offers like an olive branch. ] You looked fine from where I was standing.
[ it's been a long time since it stopped being about marta asking, a question that she never even really posed to begin with, enough said for him to infer that she needed the aid. now every act is an impulse, moving with thinking, like the act of taking care of her has somehow been written into the sleeve as chemically as the customized biology that adheres to his strength and reflexes.
but it doesn't mean he isn't aware of what else might be happening here, how the way he looks at her (the way she looks at him) gives birth to other thoughts that have little to do with simply watching out for her well being. he knows the danger of the distraction; it's landed him in hot water before, feeling without thinking, letting hormonal urges get the best of him, and though he didn't put up a fight when faced with clara that one night, he won't let himself repeat them here.
when she offers him the glass, he takes it and brings it to his lips to shoot back swiftly, downing it like water, like it might burn away the stray desire that curls beneath his skin. ]
That's because you're too polite sometimes. [ he gives a light hiss when he sets the glass down, feeling the liquid sharp as it goes down. when he looks at her again, she doesn't look any different than she did just moments ago. ] You should say what you're really thinking in Spanish. I like when you get meaner in your language.
[ his initial comment isn't news to her; marta's heard variations of it time and time again, but so often they come from people who can afford to speak their mind with little consequence that the words just sort of blur together and grow fuzzy. so she's more than a little prepared for the sentiment when he makes it, ready to tip her chin up and steady her gaze (to keep her eyes from rolling over, of course) but what he ends up saying next is nowhere near what she could have expected that for a second marta is convinced she'd heard him wrong.
(she would not have put it past her drink-addled mind to conjure up some foolish wishful thinking.)
but no. those are his words coming from his mouth, leaving his lips that twist like he's frustrated about something but all he keeps looking at is her. what did she do? ]
Eres un hombre muy interesante.
[ she says the words like a curse, lips curling with a wry little smile, but like everything else she says it's the truth. he's as interesting as he is dangerous, and she's not sure which leads to what anymore.
she trusts he can figure out the meaning himself, though he'll probably be disappointed it's not what he's goading her for. she's quick to smooth out the obvious surprise on her face, the way her brows ticked closer to her hairline in that split-second it'd taken her to process what she'd just heard. her expression a little more neutral, she forgoes her own glass to take another swig straight from the bottle. the heat that follows is a welcome one, even if it's still nothing like the feeling of his chest pressed up against hers — things she shouldn't be thinking about, let alone remembering. ]
And I'm not mean. [ rude. ] I just worry less about what I say.
[ he makes the suggestion before he can stop himself, like the thoughts remain unfiltered as they slip from his mouth, even more casually with the liquor in his belly despite his intent in using the drink to distract him from all else that he's getting drunk on tonight.
though he doesn't know spanish in the way he can speak certain languages fluently like japanese and german, he's been around enough to pick up some of it for understanding, and what she says now isn't so complex for him to miss it. when it's hardly anything cruel, he still managing to match in her smile, his a little more sly like he takes her words like a dare in many ways. ]
Then you should stop worrying.
[ if that's what it takes. maybe that's part of why he likes hearing her speak it. despite the likelihood in hot catching every word's meaning, he can hear her voice, hear the weight that's carried in it, like the tension and nerves she often holds are eased away when she's fitted into her own comfort, into something that's so much more herself.
it's impossible not to like seeing her that way โ uncaged, free, herself.
the realization of it makes him forget his own cautions, fingers moving without thought as they slip around the hand holding the bottle. she's pulled the move on him before, using the guidance of his hand to bring the bottle to her lips, so he does it to the refuse, tilting down to meet his mouth to the lip of the bottle as he coaxes her to tilt it for him. when he uses her hand to pull the bottle away, he finds himself even closer in her space.
he can see the tint of whiskey glossed on her lips, feels it wet on his own, and when he speaks again, it's almost like a secret whispered between them. ] Say something else.
[ stop worrying, he says, but he might as well tell her to stop breathing. worrying is second-nature for her, for someone who has had to second-guess everything she says or does so as to avoid all the wrong kind of attention.
for her, spanish is a double-edged sword. on her tongue, in her ears, the language represents almost everything she has come to love and hold dear. it is her home, her family, her safety. but so too is it the reason she keeps her head down so low among strangers, the reason she speaks as quietly as she does. spanish has carved itself so much on her tongue that even in speaking english, traces of it remain. what he's found he likes so much is an unfortunate beacon for all the things she does not want seen. true, in her native language she is more free. but freedom, like everything else, comes with a price.
say something else. what else is there to say? (so much, she realizes then. there's so much more to say, but her mind doesn't know where to begin.)
(her eyes, though. her eyes begin where glass meets lip, at the heat where their hands touch. her eyes follow the curve of his lips where they encourage โ taunt โ her, where whiskey leaves them glistening like a spotlight. when he swallows, she swallows too, but unlike him some of her nerves remain.)
there's still so many things about her new situation she doesn't completely comprehend, but she'll take her own precautions where she can, where it seems like he's forgotten them. she lifts her free hand to trace over the shell of his ear โ a gesture that would look entirely intimate, for eyes not trained to notice how a finger gently digs out a miniature earpiece. her lips lean in where her fingers lead, and what she says next is a secret, one she's taking care to keep as one for now. ]
No sรฉ si me da mรกs miedo necesitarte o desearte.
[ she withdraws as smoothly as she neared, his earpiece slipped back in before her hand falls back down to her side. the whiskey bottle held between them has grown light since it arrived, and as the last of her courage vibrates off of her, she finishes it off in two quick swigs. ]
[ say something else, as if he'd even know what it is he wants to hear, whether it's just about letting her have the chance to be free with what's on her mind or if he's seeking something from her lips, like an excuse to reason everything he's doing here, a feeling he might simply be craving in light of everything he's undergone these past few months.
that's what he decides this is all about, even if it isn't just any set of fingers touching his own around the bottle, isn't just any pair of lips rising so close to his skin to share a whisper at his ear, like he's well aware it's her with every second that passes much slower than it should. the removal of his earpiece earns a brief curious glance but his eyes close when she speaks, words without a translation, unable to pick it apart, especially as he finds himself distracted by the sound itself.
he doesn't know what she says, but the softness of it, the secretive nature in how she prevents it from being heard by the earpiece, it draws his gaze in following her when she pulls back, breath held as he searches her eyes for the intent of what she's just said. he's locked in even as the bottle meets her lips again, coaxed to lick his own like it's searching for more than the lingering taste of whiskey.
the whiskey, the music, the language โ all influences that have brought him here, tucked close in her space with an untranslated message. ]
Marta. [ he whispers her name, with a quiet breath that he's never carried in the sound before, peering at her eyes like he's looking for a sign from her to tell him this is all steering the wrong way. even if he wonders about drawing away, he does anything but, fingers light against her arm with a grazing touch as he leans in closer โ
"Hey, y'all! Gonna need a refill on that bottle?" says the saloon girl sliding up beside them, voice perky with a wide smile and a complete unawareness of what she's stepped in on. ]
[ later, when this is all said and done, marta is going to blame it on the beers, the whiskey, the low golden light of the saloon bouncing off the flecked gleam in his eyes that won't stop looking at her like she's got answers to questions he doesn't dare give voice. he says her name like it's its own goddamn language, something sacred and secret just between them and it gives more of a rush to marta's head than a big gulp of whiskey ever could. it's good he's still holding her, even if it's just by the fingers tangled around the neck of that bottle; even standing still, she feels like she's on the verge of swaying, tipping over. or maybe it's just her natural response to the pull of his gravity again, the way he leans in has her already rising up to meet him halfway. and yes, her mouth opens to speak โ but she's not sure she means to say what he needs her to to put a stop to all this, when marta's own breath catches in anticipation of what would happen next.
the sudden arrival of the saloon girl honestly feels like a slap on the wrist.
marta rocks back on her heels, ducks her head to look at the bottle like it holds the secrets of the universe. she mumbles a quiet thank you, muted and cordial, before holding out the bottle for her to take, finally dislodging her hands from kovacs' like the wake up call she's been needing.
she turns, meaning to reclaim her seat at the table, but the waitress' lilting voice carries over again, prompting marta to glance back just in time to see a saccharine-sweet smile, a wandering hand dancing up along the buttons of his shirt.
"It's nice t'see you again, detective... I missed you last night. Did you head on up straight into your room without stoppin' by t'see me?" ]
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no subject
Are you trying to get me drunk, Kovacs?
[ not that she's complaining or protesting, given that was more or less what she was trying to do on her own. to honor her fallen soldier beer #4, she reaches for the bottle first. either she misses the waitress setting down the pair of glasses next or she ignores it on purpose, because next she just treats herself to a hearty swig straight from the tap. ]
no subject
What, a well-behaved girl like you? Wouldn't dare.
[ the sarcasm is inked in every word, sly with the acknowledgement that her good nature doesn't necessarily make her pure, that she's capable of plenty of other behaviors, witnessing it from the moment that she'd opened vocal fire on him with a hail of spanish swears on account of his having accidentally called her at an inappropriate time.
when she's done with the bottle, he reaches in to steal it for himself, taking on a heftier gulp, like he's aiming to catch up, especially on account of his stronger tolerance. once he lowers it again, he can feel the gripping burn in his throat, curling his lip inward to clean it of the damp hint of whiskey left behind. ]
Were you trying to? [ get drunk. the multiple beers are message enough. ]
no subject
now what she doesn't say (and somehow, miraculously, doesn't obviously show) is that that one swig of whiskey is already having its desired effect on her, leaving her feeling spun around and wading in turbulent waters as she struggles to just watch him take a gulp or two his own. if she winds up staring a little longer, a little more intently? it's to help her keep grounded and focused, of course. it has absolutely nothing to do with the slow suck of his lip for the remaining drops of that whiskey, leaving them pinker than they were before.
it's almost a relief when his question shifts things to something a little more somber. sobering, even. ]
Oh, you know. Just one of those nights.
[ marta doesn't get into the habit of feeling sorry for herself, at least not where people can see, but he asks her and of course she tells the truth, only the difference now is she feels like giving more than just a vague half-answer. ]
Some nights the ghosts are louder than I can ignore.
[ but unlike that evening of the bandit attack, marta isn't seeking consolation or comfort. it's a dead horse that deserves to be put to rest by now. if only the voices in her mind will let it. so the answer to his question? yes, that was exactly what she was trying to do. ]
no subject
she's stronger than she gives herself credit for, but it doesn't mean she isn't allowed this, seeking the escape in ways he's all too guilty in chasing night after night, whether it's diving down to the bottom of a bottle or aiming for a distraction through other means.
he won't ask her to elaborate, to describe any of it, if that isn't what she wants to do. because he knows the difference between needing to get the words out and wanting to drown them out, and it's with a silent glance that he speaks his reply โ i know. setting the bottle back onto the table, he slides it back along the table to place it in front of her, glass scraping against the wood. ]
Came to the right place. Because there's nothing louder than that shitty happy jig they're playing there on the piano โ [ he nods his head, gesturing to the echoing entertainment on the other side of the room, noise to accompany some of the girls on staff here to move into an upbeat dance. ] Try getting that out of your head for the next few days.
no subject
suffice to say she's used to spending these moments alone, but that doesn't make the process any less lonely. it doesn't make her wish for a pair of understanding eyes any less. she wouldn't have called him, but now that he's here... she won't ask him to stay, just like he never has. but she has even less desire to send him away, even if she should. ]
I don't know. [ the lines around her mouth soften a little more, her eyes on him the entire time. ] It kind of grows on you.
[ a second to let it marinate, and then she's following the direction of his nod, watching as some of the tipsier patrons give into the rhythm and join the saloon girls as they wiggle and sway. ]
Do you dance?
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but speaking of tripping over feet โ ]
Hell no. [ kovacs nearly snorts, straightening in his seat as he reaches into his coat, pulling out a small box of cigarettes, more old-fashioned than his typical style at the station, with half the reliability of a filter and twice the health risks.
placing one between his lips, he holds it there as he seeks out the matches in his pocket, eyes still on her. ] Do I look like I got legs for that?
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Isn't the expression about two left feet?
[ whiskey bottle back in hand, it's easy work to take another few gulps of that liquid courage. she's on her feet before she has a chance to think about it. the layer of skirts zari had convinced her into that evening sashay around her legs at the first twist of her hips, already beginning to move in time to the upbeat song. ]
Lack of rhythm... Is that a you thing or a sleeve thing?
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[ really, when it comes to his priorities, it's never towards anything for the sake of pleasure, not even having any sort of list of hobbies or activities that get considered when he swaps out for a different body. if it isn't fit enough to withstand a fight, then it's probably no good to him. getting himself into a military-grade sleeve of a cop had just been a convenience.
but whatever his body is fit her, hers seems to surprisingly be made to move, watching the impressive ease in which she stands to start swaying her hips. if his eyes momentarily lock towards watching them, his hand holding a lit match stilling in the air before he even gets to light the cigarette, it's not on purpose. ]
Looks like your feet work better than mine.
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You keep your memories, right?
[ hands in her hair, loose tonight in waves leftover from her braids, a 4/4 beat in the song that has her feet automatically falling into a cha cha that would make her mother proud. ]
Dancing's about the feeling, not the equipment.
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[ some people have made it more of a complication with bringing in things like back-ups and cloning. but that's an entirely different sort of explanation that would prove to be more of a hassle than something kovacs cares to explain, especially when the technicality of it is far from his mind with the liquor in his belly and the entertainment of the view in front of him.
(he doesn't even think too hard about how that question would bring up a whole other subject altogether, the way his memories eventually won't be kept at all.)
he'd probably be more polite about now staring if marta wasn't looking right back at him, steering his eyes from her hips to the shift of her fingers into her hair, each new movement painting a new picture of the girl he thought he already had all figured out.
when the fire on the match descends along it, forgotten as he holds it, he nearly burns his fingers. ]
And what am I supposed to be feeling?
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The music, ceniza.
[ she leans forward, and a gentle flick of her fingers taps out the gathering ash at the end of his cigarette. she doesn't draw back nearly as quickly as she should, but that's all just due to keeping in time with the beat, right? ]
What else?
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when she taps at his cigarette, his teeth scrape against the damp end pressed to his mouth, inhaling a deeper high of the nicotine before his tongue feels dry, likely from the thirst for another gulp of whiskey.
plucking the stick from his lips, he blows out the smoke slowly, gaze still transfixed. the mention of the music reminds him that he's barely even been listening to it in the last minute. ]
Figured you were just feeling the whiskey. [ that's all it is, he tells himself. ] Or you've done a hell of a job in hiding those moves.
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Yeah, because I've had so many reasons to show them before.
[ his hand still in hers, she gives it a little tug, in time to the challenging arch of her brow. ]
You have to join me if you want to see more.
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tonight, that feeling seems to be pulsing a bit stronger, irrelevant to the cigarette when he doesn't fight her putting it out. his eyes remain caught by the way she's leaned close, aware that he should very well turn away before he stops thinking of reasons to.
she tugs at his hand and he snickers beneath his breath, giving a lazy shake of his head. ]
What did I just tell you? [ ignoring his own words and warning, his fingers curl tighter around hers, standing on his feet. ] I don't dance.
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[ this close, it would've been easy to pass the playfulness off with another secret little smile, but the booze, the music, the high of his acquiescing hand in hers โ how could she do anything else but grin wide, the kind of smile that crinkles her eyes and warms up her freckles.
at least she doesn't draw him towards the small crowd that had formed, instead sticking to their cozy little circle just beside their table. his other hand she snatches up before he can second-guess his decision, already moving her feet and hips to the music in a dance that's less form and more function. the head-whipping, hips-shaking, shoulders-shimmying kind of dance popular in the last hours of a quinceanera when everyone's had too much booze and cake and no one cares how silly anyone looks anymore.
she eggs and cheers him on the entire time, far more generous than anyone with eyes has any right to be when witnessing his moves, but it's like she said โ it's about the feeling. and right now? well she feels pretty damn good.
so good, in fact, that she doesn't realize her twirl under his arm has her stumbling into the back of another patron, who stands firm and bothered by the little shove. marta trips backwards into kovacs' chest, one hand coming up to stifle the reflexive giggle that escapes her, hastening to put on an appropriately apologetic face when the large man turns to frown at her. ]
Lo siento, [ she manages, biting down on her lip. ] Sorry.
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it's hard to say why he chooses to engage in it, but after the weeks they've had together here, playful commands in their office often leading to reluctant compliance, this only seems to be an extension of the sort of rhythm they've already developed, where subtle easy coaxing is all that's required in this branch of trust that typically comes without question.
for a while, he peers down at his feet, trying to pick up on the well-practiced steps of hers, attempting to mirror them since foot work, at least, is amongst his skills, even if it's typically for the purposes of landing a hit. lifting his eyes, it's the motions of movement that prove more difficult, focusing on the study of her hips, only to find himself forgetting the intent of learning to dance when he's more transfixed by the ease and joy of her dancing, paired with the brightness of a smile that he's never seen so wide before.
somehow, for a moment, he does let himself give in to the feeling, to the lack of thinking, burdens lifted from his shoulders to simply move with her, even if he lacks the natural rhythm she carries. when she stumbles though, his reflexes do kick in, one hand still clutching hers as the other presses firm to her hip to keep her upright as her back presses to to his chest. ]
She apologized. [ he states calmly but firm to the other man with a stare that practically warns him to accept the apology and move on before he turns their bodies away, almost protective around her as he looks at her from over her shoulder, fingers still holding onto her. ] You good?
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Great.
[ she does feel great, even if they're no longer dancing, even if the music has faded slightly, blocked by the large, solid body she is suddenly very acutely aware of being so close to hers.
she swallows suddenly, and she realizes just how dry her mouth has gotten. her mind scrambles for something, anything to say, which is strange all on its own when silence has never been an issue with him. ]
I think I made a friend.
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whether promises or responsibility are a part of it, he looks over her now, his height leaving him hovering slightly from behind her, just to make sure of it, the hold at her hip lingering for a moment longer than it should before he eases the touch away to redirect it lightly against her elbow. ]
How about we be careful about what kind of friends we're making, huh?
[ sometimes he hates that he's so attuned to detail, that his eyes gaze on the fall of her hair against her shoulder, strands clinging to the exposed skin at her collar, damp from a light sheen of sweat, produced by all the dancing. he hates that he can see the faster rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, how his own chest is brushed close enough to her back for him to feel the quickened beat of her heart, almost unable to discern it from his own.
finally, he takes a slight step back, like the distance is necessary, pulling his touch away from her hand, fingers flexing briefly at his side. ] I'm better fit for drinking.
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he was the first to put back the distance between them, but once again she meets him halfway by widening it further, moving back towards the table to grab for the whiskey bottle like she isn't extra eager to replace the warmth he'd just taken away with him. (since when has his absence been more of a shock than his presence?) ]
You're overthinking it, [ comes her quiet reply, tipping the bottle over to properly pour him a glass that she soon offers like an olive branch. ] You looked fine from where I was standing.
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but it doesn't mean he isn't aware of what else might be happening here, how the way he looks at her (the way she looks at him) gives birth to other thoughts that have little to do with simply watching out for her well being. he knows the danger of the distraction; it's landed him in hot water before, feeling without thinking, letting hormonal urges get the best of him, and though he didn't put up a fight when faced with clara that one night, he won't let himself repeat them here.
when she offers him the glass, he takes it and brings it to his lips to shoot back swiftly, downing it like water, like it might burn away the stray desire that curls beneath his skin. ]
That's because you're too polite sometimes. [ he gives a light hiss when he sets the glass down, feeling the liquid sharp as it goes down. when he looks at her again, she doesn't look any different than she did just moments ago. ] You should say what you're really thinking in Spanish. I like when you get meaner in your language.
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(she would not have put it past her drink-addled mind to conjure up some foolish wishful thinking.)
but no. those are his words coming from his mouth, leaving his lips that twist like he's frustrated about something but all he keeps looking at is her. what did she do? ]
Eres un hombre muy interesante.
[ she says the words like a curse, lips curling with a wry little smile, but like everything else she says it's the truth. he's as interesting as he is dangerous, and she's not sure which leads to what anymore.
she trusts he can figure out the meaning himself, though he'll probably be disappointed it's not what he's goading her for. she's quick to smooth out the obvious surprise on her face, the way her brows ticked closer to her hairline in that split-second it'd taken her to process what she'd just heard. her expression a little more neutral, she forgoes her own glass to take another swig straight from the bottle. the heat that follows is a welcome one, even if it's still nothing like the feeling of his chest pressed up against hers — things she shouldn't be thinking about, let alone remembering. ]
And I'm not mean. [ rude. ] I just worry less about what I say.
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though he doesn't know spanish in the way he can speak certain languages fluently like japanese and german, he's been around enough to pick up some of it for understanding, and what she says now isn't so complex for him to miss it. when it's hardly anything cruel, he still managing to match in her smile, his a little more sly like he takes her words like a dare in many ways. ]
Then you should stop worrying.
[ if that's what it takes. maybe that's part of why he likes hearing her speak it. despite the likelihood in hot catching every word's meaning, he can hear her voice, hear the weight that's carried in it, like the tension and nerves she often holds are eased away when she's fitted into her own comfort, into something that's so much more herself.
it's impossible not to like seeing her that way โ uncaged, free, herself.
the realization of it makes him forget his own cautions, fingers moving without thought as they slip around the hand holding the bottle. she's pulled the move on him before, using the guidance of his hand to bring the bottle to her lips, so he does it to the refuse, tilting down to meet his mouth to the lip of the bottle as he coaxes her to tilt it for him. when he uses her hand to pull the bottle away, he finds himself even closer in her space.
he can see the tint of whiskey glossed on her lips, feels it wet on his own, and when he speaks again, it's almost like a secret whispered between them. ] Say something else.
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for her, spanish is a double-edged sword. on her tongue, in her ears, the language represents almost everything she has come to love and hold dear. it is her home, her family, her safety. but so too is it the reason she keeps her head down so low among strangers, the reason she speaks as quietly as she does. spanish has carved itself so much on her tongue that even in speaking english, traces of it remain. what he's found he likes so much is an unfortunate beacon for all the things she does not want seen. true, in her native language she is more free. but freedom, like everything else, comes with a price.
say something else. what else is there to say? (so much, she realizes then. there's so much more to say, but her mind doesn't know where to begin.)
(her eyes, though. her eyes begin where glass meets lip, at the heat where their hands touch. her eyes follow the curve of his lips where they encourage โ taunt โ her, where whiskey leaves them glistening like a spotlight. when he swallows, she swallows too, but unlike him some of her nerves remain.)
there's still so many things about her new situation she doesn't completely comprehend, but she'll take her own precautions where she can, where it seems like he's forgotten them. she lifts her free hand to trace over the shell of his ear โ a gesture that would look entirely intimate, for eyes not trained to notice how a finger gently digs out a miniature earpiece. her lips lean in where her fingers lead, and what she says next is a secret, one she's taking care to keep as one for now. ]
No sรฉ si me da mรกs miedo necesitarte o desearte.
[ she withdraws as smoothly as she neared, his earpiece slipped back in before her hand falls back down to her side. the whiskey bottle held between them has grown light since it arrived, and as the last of her courage vibrates off of her, she finishes it off in two quick swigs. ]
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that's what he decides this is all about, even if it isn't just any set of fingers touching his own around the bottle, isn't just any pair of lips rising so close to his skin to share a whisper at his ear, like he's well aware it's her with every second that passes much slower than it should. the removal of his earpiece earns a brief curious glance but his eyes close when she speaks, words without a translation, unable to pick it apart, especially as he finds himself distracted by the sound itself.
he doesn't know what she says, but the softness of it, the secretive nature in how she prevents it from being heard by the earpiece, it draws his gaze in following her when she pulls back, breath held as he searches her eyes for the intent of what she's just said. he's locked in even as the bottle meets her lips again, coaxed to lick his own like it's searching for more than the lingering taste of whiskey.
the whiskey, the music, the language โ all influences that have brought him here, tucked close in her space with an untranslated message. ]
Marta. [ he whispers her name, with a quiet breath that he's never carried in the sound before, peering at her eyes like he's looking for a sign from her to tell him this is all steering the wrong way. even if he wonders about drawing away, he does anything but, fingers light against her arm with a grazing touch as he leans in closer โ
"Hey, y'all! Gonna need a refill on that bottle?" says the saloon girl sliding up beside them, voice perky with a wide smile and a complete unawareness of what she's stepped in on. ]
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the sudden arrival of the saloon girl honestly feels like a slap on the wrist.
marta rocks back on her heels, ducks her head to look at the bottle like it holds the secrets of the universe. she mumbles a quiet thank you, muted and cordial, before holding out the bottle for her to take, finally dislodging her hands from kovacs' like the wake up call she's been needing.
she turns, meaning to reclaim her seat at the table, but the waitress' lilting voice carries over again, prompting marta to glance back just in time to see a saccharine-sweet smile, a wandering hand dancing up along the buttons of his shirt.
"It's nice t'see you again, detective... I missed you last night. Did you head on up straight into your room without stoppin' by t'see me?" ]
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