[ 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — taunt — 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 — 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 sé si me da más 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 — 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 —
"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 — 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?" ]
[ for a moment, he can feel her closer, the mutual shift that shortens the distance even faster, and when she parts her lips, he isn't sure if words will leave them, but the soft gloss against their smoothness calls to him like an invitation, wondering how much whiskey he might taste there, if she'd taste more like the liquor or carry a taste all her own.
but those thoughts halt the moment the voice rings out loud enough to put a stop to whatever wandering fantasy he'd begun to chase. all at once, he's back in the saloon, back to listening to the loud band play out the annoying tunes he so often hears well into his sleep from the other side of his room upstairs. once marta moves away from him, it's truly over, and he rubs a hand over his face, fingers firm against his own lips like he's trying to rub away the desire right off of them.
he barely even catches marta handing off the bottle once her touch is withdrawn from his, instead focusing on realigning himself from the momentary standstill of his self-control.
it's only when the waitress sudden substitutes the vacant space marta's left behind, his own body straightening uncomfortably as fingers slide against his shirt. it's not as if he hasn't returned hints of the flirtation before, but for a moment, he almost forgets how he's supposed to behave, before he remembers the role he's supposed to be playing. ]
Well, you know — long hours, Sally. [ he tries to give her a casual smile, the kind that always ends up looking more smug coming from his lips, fighting the urge to turn his eyes back to marta. ] Mysteries don't run on a nine-to-five. Work never stops.
[ sally's fingers trace a slow, winding path up along kovacs' shirt buttons, intent too brazen to be as coy as she means for it to be, and marta finds herself helplessly tracing its path towards the destination of kovacs' bared throat, and further up still to familiar fold of that smug smile. logically, rationally, marta knows the charm is simply a part of the role, but the headiness left behind by all that alcohol makes everything he does suddenly seem so very personal.
slowly, she settles herself down on the table, drawing the new bottle sally had provided them up into her lap, tucking the cool glass between the fold of her skirt over her thighs. her fingers drum along its neck, mouth twisting open before she can even help herself. ]
If you want him for a few hours for yourself, I can take on more of the load.
[ okay, maybe she should feel bad about butting in here, but in her defense... well. sally did it first. ]
But you should know — he snores.
[ sally looks to marta, clearly waiting for her to elaborate on what is so obviously an intimate detail, and yet all marta does is smile her polite little smile, content to let the waitress' imagination fill in the blanks for her. ]
[ he should feel something in the brush of those fingertips, like the call to what he believed himself wanting in all these passing weeks, a desire for the attention, for the draw of someone wanting him. but in a touch that slides towards his mouth, his thoughts only circle back to the soft whisper of lips to his ear, of secret words that spin like a riddle worth unraveling.
before he can halt sally's intentions, marta speaks up, his eyes turning to her as he watches her settle upon the table, the way she tucks the bottle over her skirt. for all that he's just warned himself about what he's just narrowly escaped, once more, his stare seems almost intent on remaining where it is, fighting the amusement on his lips when she seems to mix a warning and what he imagines is meant to be a mockery. ]
You know, Sally, I'm — I got babysitting duty over my partner tonight. [ despite his words to the waitress, he keeps his eyes on marta, lips curling with the return of that wry intent. ] Maybe another time.
[ marta's gaze locks on his the second his attention drifts back over, like she means to reclaim it despite never meaning to lose it in the first place. her stare, too, is a challenging one — at least until he fires back and then suddenly her expression sours, almost petulant. she honestly doesn't even hear the rest of what he says, or what sally says in return (first, a quiet look, flicking between marta and kovacs, and then a dawning sort of realization as she quietly concedes with, "Yeah. Some other time.") — sally, like the rest of the bar, just fades away into the haze of the backdrop. again, like so many times before, it's just kovacs, it's just her, it's just this charge of electricity between them too dangerous to be playing with. ]
Babysitting, [ she repeats, tone dry as the desert outside. she lifts a finger, finding target on kovacs' chest and those annoying, dumb shirt buttons. ] What're you implying, cabrón?
[ he doesn't even get to mutter any kind of acknowledgement of a goodbye to sally before he's feeling the prodding push of marta's finger to his chest, small but jabbing like a small rock thrown at him — not enough to shake him from where he stands firm but impossible to ignore. it's why he all too soon turns his body to properly face her, bearing a calm reaction than her visible annoyed one.
room for logical thought is all gone, responding on instinct the way he so often does with her, hands gripping at the table on either side of her hips as he leans in, face almost stern and focused. ]
Snoring. [ he responds, lacking an actual answer to her question, though the locking stare should be evident enough about his implications in observing her. ] Cute little move there. You get jealous of all the girls or is Sally a special case?
[ for as eager as marta had been just seconds ago in reacquiring kovacs' attention (something she has resolutely decided not to investigate for the safety of her sanity), to have it now laid over her like this feels a lot like trying to break through the surface of a massive tidal wave, like receiving a little too much, all at once of what was meant to nourish her. she does her best, of course, straightening her spine, tipping her chin up when he leans in close like that, literally caging her in. it's an intimidation tactic, or so she tells herself, and she's had just enough alcohol churning inside her that the reflex to kowtow to it is somewhere else, asleep. ]
Jealous?
[ the word comes out in a half-sputter, half-laugh. but whatever it is she means to say after, to dismiss such a silly idea, falls dead on her tongue as her throat catches around a familiar (and far too telling) gag. she swallows it back, hastily shifting gears. ]
You sound like a motorcycle engine on a good night. I'm surprised the walls of our office haven't caved in yet.
[ yes, very good. smooth. she very nearly forgets she can feel the sides of his hand pressing lightly against her thighs, scorching through the material of her skirt. ] ]
[ whatever she says about his apparent snoring doesn't offend him; it's not even his body so if that's a habit he's acquired, it's all through ryker's fault and not his own, though even if it was, it's not like he has the kind of pride that would get defensive about such a quality.
still, there's the amusement in the way she uses it, sharp enough to slice away the question he's asked of her, like she's impressed with herself for the retort. what does earn the raise of a brow is her correction on the waitress' name, something he hadn't done purposely. but then, all things considered, he hadn't actually been paying it much attention. ]
Well, if it bothers you that much, then I can stay away so you don't have to deal with me. [ spoken like his own retaliation except it hangs between them almost like there's a question in it, one that has nothing to do with the sounds he makes in his sleep, eyes still locked tightly on hers, breath a little sharper, only hearing the steady inhale and exhale shared between them, the rest of the saloon long faded again. ]
Maybe I'll just stay the night with Sandy.
[ that becomes more of a jab, chin tilted up with a gaze that falls watchfully over her. ]
[ he's goading her, she knows he is, and on any other day she would have easily moved past it with a roll of her eyes and a gentle admonishment or two. but all the alcohol has left her dizzy, and their dance still has her reeling, making it more of a struggle to pretend he doesn't affect her as easily as he has perhaps begun to suspect.
in the end, she winds up doing as she always does, and speaks the truth. ]
I didn't say it bothered me.
[ being the only two people left on the planet means she doesn't have to speak so loudly to be heard... but then again he's always been very good at hearing her.
this entire time, she hadn't looked away from his piercing gaze, pinning her in place just like his arms trap her. with nowhere to run, all she can do is stand her ground, tipping her chin up to keep level with him. the fact it only further lessens the gap between them is both something she doesn't miss, and something she resolutely avoids pointing out. ]
But no one's making you stay, ceniza. [ she lifts the bottle between them, gently pressing the glass against his chest — but the last thing she means to do with it is push him away. ] Deberías hacer lo que quieras.
[ he doesn't need his instincts to be able to sense that there's something here, something unspoken between them that's being purposely ignored, dodged at every corner for about a thousand reasons that it should be. if he were a little more sober, he might have a better sense about it, aware that there's certain things he shouldn't have, and of everyone, she's the last person he should be dangling this risk with.
after the last few months in recognizing how much she manages to keep him stable, keep him from steering off the edge, it isn't worth sabotaging, not when he already knows where taking this road leads.
but her eyes don't leave his, and maybe if they did, he'd have an easier time stepping away, able to piece himself back together to counter what the alcohol is trying to deceive him into pursuing. but she's breathing so closely on that same dangling thread, a secret acceptance that teases the temptation to peer down at her lips with every uttered word she speaks. ]
Then I'll leave. [ he says finally, when the bottle touches his chest without nudging to further their distance. without that encouragement, there's nothing to stop him from moving forward in contrast to his own words, stepping in between the parting of her knees, his legs nudging forward against the fabric of her skirt. his hands remain on either side of her thighs, though the tips of his thumbs graze a light touch, like he's aware he lacks the permission for anything further than that.
but he's leaning in closer now, feeling the heat of her breath near his mouth. ]
I'll leave if you tell me you don't want me to stay.
[ he knows it's a terrible thing to ask when he knows she can't tell a lie, but he also knows how carefully she phrases her words, and right now, everything she's told him doesn't tell him what he needs to hear, doesn't tell him what she wants. and maybe that's the final nail on the coffin that he needs to be able to walk away from this, to be able to will himself in remembering that he isn't supposed to have this (even if only for a night, even if it's just the desire to have something good again no matter how fleeting), even if everything in his body pulses in telling him that, right now — (because of the whiskey, because he's selfish, because she's given him things he's warned her not to give, because he's hungry to feel this with someone) — she's what he wants. ]
[ is it foolishness or wisdom? pretending not to sense whatever it is that'd been steadily brewing between them, like the slow churning of ocean waves before the first break of a storm. in the haze of all that alcohol, marta can't be too sure anymore; where her mind remains sharp, her heart... it's so much louder now, but try as she might she can't decipher any of its words.
then i'll leave, he says, and it's only then she realizes how desperately she did not want him to. she's not sure when it happened, the switch of his presence being convenient to something far more necessary, but still an indulgence all it's own. but she knows the fault is her own. she'd grown comfortable, but more than that she'd grown careless, where now his absence is as obvious as his presence, taking up so much space in the quiet little corner of the world she keeps to herself.
I'll leave if you tell me you don't want me to stay. like she could be ever let herself be so honest. (just because she can't lie doesn't mean she always says her truth.) like she could let herself be so selfish again.
no sé si me da más miedo necesitarte o desearte. every breath they share, she thinks she's coming closer to the truth. (he takes up more space, and she lets him.)
between them, her hand shifts and she looks down to follow the movement of her finger tracing the same pattern sandy had. she ignores the way it brings his mouth into her line of sight. ]
It wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you.
[ not an answer, but an answer all on its own. no less her truth, for how careful she is to word it. and if her finger catches and hooks around a button, slipping between the fold of his shirt? well, that's just sloppy of her isn't it?
behind kovacs, some movement. the man from earlier, his eyes on her again, but the twist of his mouth is intrigued.
"This man bothering you, darlin'?"
marta's answering before her mind can process the sugar in the man's voice, the way his eyes trace the newly bared skin of her legs from how high her skirt's gotten drawn up. ]
[ he should know better than to trap her with the question, unfair of himself to put that on her, to make her answer something that he himself craves after having been so consistently denied it — (to be able to stay, to not be pushed away, to not be left behind, to be wanted) — and he realizes that selfishly it may not all tied to her, that it's his own burdens and loneliness pushing him to want someone, anyone, just so he doesn't feel as alone as he has for so long.
but if it were so simple, then any saloon girl should do. sandy had offered up the invitation for the night, an easy enough fix that could scratch the itch for the night, with no obligation to hold onto once he leaves this town. but it isn't what he wants.
fingers trace upon his shirt once again, marta's fingers, and he thinks of the routine they've settled into, of wordless understanding, quiet mornings in a stuffy office, hands exchanging letters from locals and fresh coffee, snide sarcasm paired with a sigh-accompanied eye roll and a half smile that takes it with a quiet version of endearment, brushing fingers smoothing back uncombed strands of hair while recounting old stories from memory, warm touches that spell out the invitation into the temporary home of its hold.
it wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you, she says, but all he can think is how unfair he is to her, to ask this of her, when every memory he recounts now between the heated swirl of their breaths will be forgotten, if not in the coming days, then in the coming months where he eventually won't even remember why he was so desperate to hold onto her here in this moment in the first place.
then let me ask — can i stay with you?
the words never leave his lips, just as he never gets to reach again for her hand to voice his own answer with their laced connection (in his mind, he recalls two lonely stick-threaded dolls, their figures imperfect, jagged and misshapen, yet still fitting together at the touch of their hands as if they'd always been made to). instead, he startles with the voice behind him that shatters the peace of their exchange. eye contact finally breaking as his hands finally depart from their place near her thighs, he steers his gaze downward, collecting himself back to the reality of their space, before he straightens up and turns to the man behind him.
instantly, he can see that look, knows its kind, smugness wrapped in a superior sense of masculinity with eyes that don't mask their descent to the fall of marta's skirt, and whether it's the guilt that he might've cornered her like one of these lecherous men would, or the disgruntled protectiveness in observing the way someone else's eyes might be trapping her in such a lewd display, his eyes harden, even as his voice remains steady, laced with his own invincible warning. ]
[ how quickly the dream shatters; all it takes is another party to remind them they aren't in their own little world and the bubble around them dissipates until the dull roar of the lively patrons thunders back into their ears, led procession-style by the excitable jangling of piano keys. marta had been the first to step away, figuratively speaking, addressing the man without a thought but in the hopes of dismissing an intrusion no one had asked for.
but by then it was already too late. the damage was done, and whatever magnetic connection they'd been anchored to at the time has all but vanished the moment their gazes fell away from each other, and though the air between them still feels charged with electricity, somehow marta can tell that something has dislodged itself again, leaving an empty space.
it's for the best. (isn't it?)
"Oh yeah? Looks to me like you want some kinda problem. What happened? You strike out and now yer lookin' for a fight?"
by that point marta's mind finally catches up to the rest of her, the man's goading tone enough to draw her back to her feet, stepping up just beside kovacs to hold out the hand that's still holding onto the bottle. ]
Maybe we should all calm down. Here, why don't you have a drink on us?
[ she's offers the man the bottle, practically shoving it at his chest and forcing him to hold out his hands lest the entire thing come crashing down in pieces at their feet. in that same breath she turns to face kovacs, effectively stepping between them to vie once more for his attention. ]
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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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — taunt — 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 — 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 sé si me da más 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 — 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 —
"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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but those thoughts halt the moment the voice rings out loud enough to put a stop to whatever wandering fantasy he'd begun to chase. all at once, he's back in the saloon, back to listening to the loud band play out the annoying tunes he so often hears well into his sleep from the other side of his room upstairs. once marta moves away from him, it's truly over, and he rubs a hand over his face, fingers firm against his own lips like he's trying to rub away the desire right off of them.
he barely even catches marta handing off the bottle once her touch is withdrawn from his, instead focusing on realigning himself from the momentary standstill of his self-control.
it's only when the waitress sudden substitutes the vacant space marta's left behind, his own body straightening uncomfortably as fingers slide against his shirt. it's not as if he hasn't returned hints of the flirtation before, but for a moment, he almost forgets how he's supposed to behave, before he remembers the role he's supposed to be playing. ]
Well, you know — long hours, Sally. [ he tries to give her a casual smile, the kind that always ends up looking more smug coming from his lips, fighting the urge to turn his eyes back to marta. ] Mysteries don't run on a nine-to-five. Work never stops.
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slowly, she settles herself down on the table, drawing the new bottle sally had provided them up into her lap, tucking the cool glass between the fold of her skirt over her thighs. her fingers drum along its neck, mouth twisting open before she can even help herself. ]
If you want him for a few hours for yourself, I can take on more of the load.
[ okay, maybe she should feel bad about butting in here, but in her defense... well. sally did it first. ]
But you should know — he snores.
[ sally looks to marta, clearly waiting for her to elaborate on what is so obviously an intimate detail, and yet all marta does is smile her polite little smile, content to let the waitress' imagination fill in the blanks for her. ]
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before he can halt sally's intentions, marta speaks up, his eyes turning to her as he watches her settle upon the table, the way she tucks the bottle over her skirt. for all that he's just warned himself about what he's just narrowly escaped, once more, his stare seems almost intent on remaining where it is, fighting the amusement on his lips when she seems to mix a warning and what he imagines is meant to be a mockery. ]
You know, Sally, I'm — I got babysitting duty over my partner tonight. [ despite his words to the waitress, he keeps his eyes on marta, lips curling with the return of that wry intent. ] Maybe another time.
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Babysitting, [ she repeats, tone dry as the desert outside. she lifts a finger, finding target on kovacs' chest and those annoying, dumb shirt buttons. ] What're you implying, cabrón?
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room for logical thought is all gone, responding on instinct the way he so often does with her, hands gripping at the table on either side of her hips as he leans in, face almost stern and focused. ]
Snoring. [ he responds, lacking an actual answer to her question, though the locking stare should be evident enough about his implications in observing her. ] Cute little move there. You get jealous of all the girls or is Sally a special case?
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Jealous?
[ the word comes out in a half-sputter, half-laugh. but whatever it is she means to say after, to dismiss such a silly idea, falls dead on her tongue as her throat catches around a familiar (and far too telling) gag. she swallows it back, hastily shifting gears. ]
You sound like a motorcycle engine on a good night. I'm surprised the walls of our office haven't caved in yet.
[ yes, very good. smooth. she very nearly forgets she can feel the sides of his hand pressing lightly against her thighs, scorching through the material of her skirt. ] ]
And her name's Sandy, by the way.
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still, there's the amusement in the way she uses it, sharp enough to slice away the question he's asked of her, like she's impressed with herself for the retort. what does earn the raise of a brow is her correction on the waitress' name, something he hadn't done purposely. but then, all things considered, he hadn't actually been paying it much attention. ]
Well, if it bothers you that much, then I can stay away so you don't have to deal with me. [ spoken like his own retaliation except it hangs between them almost like there's a question in it, one that has nothing to do with the sounds he makes in his sleep, eyes still locked tightly on hers, breath a little sharper, only hearing the steady inhale and exhale shared between them, the rest of the saloon long faded again. ]
Maybe I'll just stay the night with Sandy.
[ that becomes more of a jab, chin tilted up with a gaze that falls watchfully over her. ]
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in the end, she winds up doing as she always does, and speaks the truth. ]
I didn't say it bothered me.
[ being the only two people left on the planet means she doesn't have to speak so loudly to be heard... but then again he's always been very good at hearing her.
this entire time, she hadn't looked away from his piercing gaze, pinning her in place just like his arms trap her. with nowhere to run, all she can do is stand her ground, tipping her chin up to keep level with him. the fact it only further lessens the gap between them is both something she doesn't miss, and something she resolutely avoids pointing out. ]
But no one's making you stay, ceniza. [ she lifts the bottle between them, gently pressing the glass against his chest — but the last thing she means to do with it is push him away. ] Deberías hacer lo que quieras.
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after the last few months in recognizing how much she manages to keep him stable, keep him from steering off the edge, it isn't worth sabotaging, not when he already knows where taking this road leads.
but her eyes don't leave his, and maybe if they did, he'd have an easier time stepping away, able to piece himself back together to counter what the alcohol is trying to deceive him into pursuing. but she's breathing so closely on that same dangling thread, a secret acceptance that teases the temptation to peer down at her lips with every uttered word she speaks. ]
Then I'll leave. [ he says finally, when the bottle touches his chest without nudging to further their distance. without that encouragement, there's nothing to stop him from moving forward in contrast to his own words, stepping in between the parting of her knees, his legs nudging forward against the fabric of her skirt. his hands remain on either side of her thighs, though the tips of his thumbs graze a light touch, like he's aware he lacks the permission for anything further than that.
but he's leaning in closer now, feeling the heat of her breath near his mouth. ]
I'll leave if you tell me you don't want me to stay.
[ he knows it's a terrible thing to ask when he knows she can't tell a lie, but he also knows how carefully she phrases her words, and right now, everything she's told him doesn't tell him what he needs to hear, doesn't tell him what she wants. and maybe that's the final nail on the coffin that he needs to be able to walk away from this, to be able to will himself in remembering that he isn't supposed to have this (even if only for a night, even if it's just the desire to have something good again no matter how fleeting), even if everything in his body pulses in telling him that, right now — (because of the whiskey, because he's selfish, because she's given him things he's warned her not to give, because he's hungry to feel this with someone) — she's what he wants. ]
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then i'll leave, he says, and it's only then she realizes how desperately she did not want him to. she's not sure when it happened, the switch of his presence being convenient to something far more necessary, but still an indulgence all it's own. but she knows the fault is her own. she'd grown comfortable, but more than that she'd grown careless, where now his absence is as obvious as his presence, taking up so much space in the quiet little corner of the world she keeps to herself.
I'll leave if you tell me you don't want me to stay. like she could be ever let herself be so honest. (just because she can't lie doesn't mean she always says her truth.) like she could let herself be so selfish again.
no sé si me da más miedo necesitarte o desearte. every breath they share, she thinks she's coming closer to the truth. (he takes up more space, and she lets him.)
between them, her hand shifts and she looks down to follow the movement of her finger tracing the same pattern sandy had. she ignores the way it brings his mouth into her line of sight. ]
It wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you.
[ not an answer, but an answer all on its own. no less her truth, for how careful she is to word it. and if her finger catches and hooks around a button, slipping between the fold of his shirt? well, that's just sloppy of her isn't it?
behind kovacs, some movement. the man from earlier, his eyes on her again, but the twist of his mouth is intrigued.
"This man bothering you, darlin'?"
marta's answering before her mind can process the sugar in the man's voice, the way his eyes trace the newly bared skin of her legs from how high her skirt's gotten drawn up. ]
It's no problem, señor. He's my babysitter.
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but if it were so simple, then any saloon girl should do. sandy had offered up the invitation for the night, an easy enough fix that could scratch the itch for the night, with no obligation to hold onto once he leaves this town. but it isn't what he wants.
fingers trace upon his shirt once again, marta's fingers, and he thinks of the routine they've settled into, of wordless understanding, quiet mornings in a stuffy office, hands exchanging letters from locals and fresh coffee, snide sarcasm paired with a sigh-accompanied eye roll and a half smile that takes it with a quiet version of endearment, brushing fingers smoothing back uncombed strands of hair while recounting old stories from memory, warm touches that spell out the invitation into the temporary home of its hold.
it wouldn't be fair for me to ask that of you, she says, but all he can think is how unfair he is to her, to ask this of her, when every memory he recounts now between the heated swirl of their breaths will be forgotten, if not in the coming days, then in the coming months where he eventually won't even remember why he was so desperate to hold onto her here in this moment in the first place.
then let me ask — can i stay with you?
the words never leave his lips, just as he never gets to reach again for her hand to voice his own answer with their laced connection (in his mind, he recalls two lonely stick-threaded dolls, their figures imperfect, jagged and misshapen, yet still fitting together at the touch of their hands as if they'd always been made to). instead, he startles with the voice behind him that shatters the peace of their exchange. eye contact finally breaking as his hands finally depart from their place near her thighs, he steers his gaze downward, collecting himself back to the reality of their space, before he straightens up and turns to the man behind him.
instantly, he can see that look, knows its kind, smugness wrapped in a superior sense of masculinity with eyes that don't mask their descent to the fall of marta's skirt, and whether it's the guilt that he might've cornered her like one of these lecherous men would, or the disgruntled protectiveness in observing the way someone else's eyes might be trapping her in such a lewd display, his eyes harden, even as his voice remains steady, laced with his own invincible warning. ]
You heard her. She's fine. No problem here.
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but by then it was already too late. the damage was done, and whatever magnetic connection they'd been anchored to at the time has all but vanished the moment their gazes fell away from each other, and though the air between them still feels charged with electricity, somehow marta can tell that something has dislodged itself again, leaving an empty space.
it's for the best. (isn't it?)
"Oh yeah? Looks to me like you want some kinda problem. What happened? You strike out and now yer lookin' for a fight?"
by that point marta's mind finally catches up to the rest of her, the man's goading tone enough to draw her back to her feet, stepping up just beside kovacs to hold out the hand that's still holding onto the bottle. ]
Maybe we should all calm down. Here, why don't you have a drink on us?
[ she's offers the man the bottle, practically shoving it at his chest and forcing him to hold out his hands lest the entire thing come crashing down in pieces at their feet. in that same breath she turns to face kovacs, effectively stepping between them to vie once more for his attention. ]
I think you should take me to your room.
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