[ 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 β (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) β 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.
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 β (to be able to stay, to not be pushed away, to not be left behind, to be wanted) β 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 β 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. ]
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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 β (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) β 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 sΓ© si me da mΓ‘s 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, seΓ±or. 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 β 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. ]