[ 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. ]
[ kovacs is already familiar with beats like these, with men that seek trouble in all kinds of ways just for the chance to prove themselves, to show they're man enough without someone undermining their pride. as soon as the man's snapping words are out, he knows there's the promise of an incoming fight on the horizon.
but what does surprise him is the way that marta suddenly rises up, sliding herself off from the table to take the initiative, watching her hand off the body in compromise. when she turns to him, posing that question, he almost loses himself in staring at her again, alcohol buzzing in his head once more. ]
Yeah. Let's go.
[ he's already moving to swap their positions, fingers sliding light against her back as he steps behind her. it'd be ideal if her words could be enough, if a peace offering of liquor would mean moving on with the night, seeking out the privacy of his room (and trying not to wonder what that would entail after the way everything has moved between them tonight).
but despite the drink in his belly, his envoy intuition isn't entirely shut up, sensing the feet of feet behind them, the weight of one firm on the ground as movement creeps up behind him. he turns swiftly in tune with his senses and quickly snags the man by the wrist, halting the swing that would have slammed the bottle directly on his head.
so much for a peace offering. curling his free fingers into a fist, he curves it into a swing, knuckles meeting the man's face, forcing him to stumble back. ]
[ the touch to her back is electric, but grounding, helping reel her back in from the rush of adrenaline that'd come with facing down a stranger almost twice her size in bulk. it's both incredibly bold and incredibly foolish of her, and a more clear-headed marta would have certainly known better (or, at the very least, thought twice about it) but he once again puts himself between her and any potential dangers and so, for that half-second at least, she is calmed.
when the fight breaks out, it's more expected than a shock. believing that man to simply let himself be told off would have been too much credit to his character, and so the startled shout she lets out is more over the sickening sound of kovacs' punch landing square where he wants it, a stream of green blood flying through the air in its wake. the man stumbles, stunned —
in that split-second marta has a miraculous moment of common sense and she takes her own stumbling steps back, out of the line of fire
— then the man's eyes go red (quite literally) and soon he's charging back for kovacs, throwing himself around the envoy's middle in an attempt to knock him down. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?" ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
but what does surprise him is the way that marta suddenly rises up, sliding herself off from the table to take the initiative, watching her hand off the body in compromise. when she turns to him, posing that question, he almost loses himself in staring at her again, alcohol buzzing in his head once more. ]
Yeah. Let's go.
[ he's already moving to swap their positions, fingers sliding light against her back as he steps behind her. it'd be ideal if her words could be enough, if a peace offering of liquor would mean moving on with the night, seeking out the privacy of his room (and trying not to wonder what that would entail after the way everything has moved between them tonight).
but despite the drink in his belly, his envoy intuition isn't entirely shut up, sensing the feet of feet behind them, the weight of one firm on the ground as movement creeps up behind him. he turns swiftly in tune with his senses and quickly snags the man by the wrist, halting the swing that would have slammed the bottle directly on his head.
so much for a peace offering. curling his free fingers into a fist, he curves it into a swing, knuckles meeting the man's face, forcing him to stumble back. ]
no subject
when the fight breaks out, it's more expected than a shock. believing that man to simply let himself be told off would have been too much credit to his character, and so the startled shout she lets out is more over the sickening sound of kovacs' punch landing square where he wants it, a stream of green blood flying through the air in its wake. the man stumbles, stunned —
in that split-second marta has a miraculous moment of common sense and she takes her own stumbling steps back, out of the line of fire
— then the man's eyes go red (quite literally) and soon he's charging back for kovacs, throwing himself around the envoy's middle in an attempt to knock him down. ]