[ A week into his stay at WASP Murder Mystery Manor, and Vasiliy Fet is weirdly comfortable. Or at least it might seem weird to those who know him only as the NYC devotee, as committed to her literal underground as he is his utilitarian loft apartment. But those people don't often realize he's spent good chunks of time away from home, pursuing outside of his work more or less indirectly-related interests. Which range from other cities' architecture to building projects to, well, ranges. Places he can practice shooting and blowing shit up, in ways that don't always fall neatly within legalities. So he knows how to crash at somebody's pad out in the boonies; just like he knows how not to lose himself (via non-structural fascination, anyway) in a rich person's house.
Of course things are a little different, here. This stop-off wasn't exactly on his vacation itinerary, and Marta... she's neither a casual acquaintance playing host, nor an aloof employer reluctantly putting him up. He sees her every day, they talk every day. When he emerges from the attic covered in dust like clown powder, when he tramps through the mansion's floors humming notes that belong in a circus lineup, when he says some crude and goofy shit over meals in her kitchen (late night snacks are the worst, proving that she witnessed him at Denny's on good behavior; feed him after 12 AM and Fet's generally like a reverse gremlin, progressively sillier) β
Through it all Marta treats him the same. Like somebody she's pleased, in a relatively lighthearted if genuine way, just to have around. Like a friend, however newfound. And while he's not sure what to do with that long-term, since he doesn't really do friends, period β since he'll be going home at some point, the knowledge of which naturally buoys his comfort in other people's spaces as much as anything else β for now, it's nice.
Even nicer than he'd guessed it'd be, accepting her invitation.
When he finishes with the bats, boards up the cracks where they got in and cleans up the mess, Fet naturally seeks other tasks. As offered he's available to help move boxes; and if Marta doesn't need him for that, he's soon shot the shit with the grounds staff so much, they look to involve him. Not unduly; he never gets the sense that anyone still employed on the estate is taking advantage, either of him or the inheritress's good will. But he's amiable and handy, and he's here. If privately they wonder further about the why's and the for how long's, it doesn't stop them accepting the exterminator's willingness to pitch in elsewhere.
Which is how he finds himself fiddling with a security camera that's goddamn ancient, by today's standards, affixed to a tree out by the main drive.
From their brief introduction, the old guy in charge of the gatehouse seems well-meaning. But when he takes a couple days off and Fet hears a camera's gone down, it's not really a shocker. He's got doubts how nimble the guy'd be on a ladder; plus what he's glimpsed of the equipment looks straight out of the 90s, including a dogged reliance on VHS that would've been dated fifteen years ago, let alone now.
Fortunately Fet's fortyish enough to be old buddies with analog. The system gives him far less trouble than the camera's housing itself, since it appears to have been nail-gunned between multiple tree branches. By the time he untangles the wiring, patches it up and reassembles the whole mess, he's covered in pine sap and needles, twigs in his hair and bits of bark pasted across one cheek (where at one point he'd inadvertently necked with the trunk).
He's still not quite finished when the rain that's been threatening all morning really starts to roll up its sleeves. With how gloomy it's grown between the pines he can tell the sky's a lowering mess, though it's visible to him only in thin grey slices. Any remaining daylight promises to quit early, ushering in the kind of autumn storm that grips well into the night: thunderless, but determinedly soaking, and that much worse for the fact it's frickin' cold.
And it's stupid, to stay out here just daring it to start. But he's fallen prey to the old handyman's lament: might as well keep going, 'cause I'm almost done, almost. ]
[ the new normal, marta finds, isn't all that normal at all. she still can't quite wrap her mind around what her life has become, to the point where she actually finds herself seeking out those moments of activity that overwhelm her β meetings with lawyers upon lawyers to seek help for her mother's undocumented status; speaking with executives regarding harlan's publishing company; sorting out current investments and accounts; phoning business administrations to pay off debt and set up her sister's tuition for the upcoming semester β even if half the time she feels like a tiny raft floating helplessly in a tempest. at least then, when the fine print and financial jargon become too much for her to process, her mind is too busy to sink into the quiet depression that'd been eager to get its full grasp on her since her friend's passing.
in america they have a saying: the truth shall set you free. does that mean she's doing it wrong, if the truth only makes her feel more trapped?
no, she did not in fact administer a lethal dosage of morphine to harlan that ultimately led to his suicide. but she thought she did. he thought she did. harlan's last thought of her was a perceived mistake, and he died because he thought it was the only way to help her. would he still be around, if she had been brave enough not to fear the consequences? she had been selfish then, just like she's being selfish now. still holding onto his gifts even though she failed him, and as of yet no amount of using his money to help her family has fully cleared her conscience yet. so it helps to keep busy. it helps to be distracted.
in the week since her arrangement with fet she has been bouncing between obligations, staying up late to pour over documents again just like she were back in college, studying for exams, and being a gracious host offering him reprieve and work whenever he should need either. she still hasn't decided what to do with harlan's things, so fet's services have been relegated to pest control and breakfasts the both of them can wake up to. unsurprisingly, his handiness extends past that, so marta isn't all that surprised when he starts to find other work to do around the estate. at some point, she wondered why he remained β his work with the bats was done, finished in only a small handful of days, and yet when the next day came he had been in the kitchen that morning, still making breakfast and already starting on that day's crossword waiting for marta to tag in like she has been. she probably should've said something, but she finds herself talking about everything else but new york, his life there, just in case it would somehow break whatever spell was keeping him here.
tomorrow, she keeps telling herself. tomorrow she'll bring it up. but then tomorrow ended up being two and three tomorrows, and still the words keep dying in her throat. he finds more work to do, and she lets him do it. today marks a departure from that, but only in the sense she'll be asking him to pause, not stop. ]
Vasiliy, you should come in now.
[ she stands at the base of the tree he's perched on, huddled under a thick woolen coat and squinting up through the branches at him. behind her the house stands waiting at the end of the long driveway, the backdrop of dark, angry clouds giving it its full effect. ]
[ Maybe it's just a unique combination of factors β the circumstances, the setting, the fact that pine sap seems to have worked its way into his goddamn ears β but Mr. Head-on-a-Swivel actually misses her approach. That is, till her shoes are crunch-crunching through the leaves right beneath his tree. ]
Oh, hey β [ He cranes his neck around, peering down at her with his face half sheepish, half unexpectedly pleased. ]
I know, I know. Tryin' to weld right through the bell, like my shop teach used to say.
[ Conceding defeat, much as it irks him, Fet leaves the work unfinished and swings away from the trunk. There's no ladder, he didn't even have to go that far up. So in two shakes of a branch and his boots he's climbed down, hit the ground and turned to Marta with a little crooked grin. ]
And lemme guess, you strolled all the way down here 'stead of driving, too.
[ He sweeps his glance over her, standing there close in that proper coat. Though his expression doesn't waver, he's seeing straight through all the seeming lightheartedness he just got done considering. How it's not fake, the chats and the crosswords and the contentment with his being here. But still only a surface layer, barely covering β
Well. So much other shit.
And he's thinking how right now she reminds him most of the night they met, bundled up in that stupid Denny's parking lot. Looking not delicate, in spite of everything, but for all the world like she could use a good hug. Which he isn't about to initiate, not then, not now; but he thinks about it, alright. ]
How you holding up?
[ Fet's breath steams on the words, as much from the humidity as the chill; and a fat raindrop ricochets off a branch into his brow (he tells himself the trees are just dripping β like, from what?). But he stays in place, like her answering is everything and the literal power of the weather, nothing. ]
[ one would think the setting would encourage more vigilance, but maybe it's for the best that fet isn't as susceptible to the ambiance of a 1920 whodunit scenario that harlan enjoyed evoking in his every day. the old man still appreciated many things, in many ways, but if there's one thing he was aware of, it was his brand. you certainly couldn't knock his commitment to it.
she steps off to the side when she sees him about to make his final leap to the ground, half expecting the earth to rattle on its axis in response. instead there is just the lovely crunch of autumnal leaves and dried twigs giving way to his boots. her own tennis shoes don't make quite as much of a dent, so she doesn't get to enjoy the same kind of auditory catharsis.
when he points out her lack of transportation, she just shrugs, her own smile cavalier. ]
The dogs wanted to go for a walk.
[ the very same dogs that are always free to roam on their own? the ones that, currently, aren't anywhere to be found nearby? yes, those dogs.
she lingers on his question, as curious to know the answer to it as he is. in the end she settles on another shrug, a noncommittal, ] I'm holding.
[ that morning had her in two hours-long meetings, both very necessary, but also incredibly draining. she's looking forward to the storm, in all honesty. bundled up in her bed under a thick blanket, losing herself to a random book she'll pull off of harlan's shelves.
when that raindrop falls on fet's brow, her hand twitches with the sudden urge to wipe it off. she has to look away just do she doesn't end up giving in. ]
How's the work here? Mr. Proofroc felt bad he couldn't cancel his trip to stay and help.
[ she's simply relaying a message here, but there's a tone in her voice that suggests the older guard's presence would have been more hurt than help and they both know it. ]
[ He's gotten so used to the dogs' presence, particularly while doing stuff like this, that any absence of panting and trotting and general German shepherd talkiness overlays all other outdoor sounds. So when she references them, of course he knows they're nowhere within a football field's length. But he takes it in stride, seeing her smile and naturally assuming she didn't need the excuse to alert him, so much as to get some fresh (if rain-laden) air for herself. ]
Is what it is, yeah? [ Still smiling from his mouth's corner, he steps closer to her. Voice even and surprisingly gentled under the trees: not like they're muffling it, only failing to raise it. (And if it's not clear whether he means Marta's holding or his task, the way he goes on, it kinda just works.) ]
Nah, he shouldn't feel bad. [ His tone answering the something in hers, conveying that he knows the old guy does his best, even if his best ain't up to snuff; that like the rest Mr. Proofroc is what he is. ] Still deserves his vacation.
[ Smacking leaf litter and dirt off his jeans, he heads for the road, though not before waiting for Marta to fall in step. ]
Won't take much more to get that camera back up. Whole system could use an update, though. Not like you don't know it. Could go wireless out here, hell, even a wired DVR β
[ Like a missed cue, that's when the full-out rain hurls itself onto center stage. There's only a brief preceding gust, a patter through the woods like scampering feet; then the sky simply starts upending buckets. Fet flings his arm out over Marta's head β like that'll do jack, long as it is β even as sheets of water hit him right in the face. ]
Nam pizdets, c'mon! [ And he reorients them, swearingly, toward a run for the gatehouse. ]
[ crunch crunch go the leaves and the earth, but marta takes care to do little more than the faint shake of her shoulders to indicate she's aware of his nearing. her eyes still train on the would-be path back to the house, currently hidden under seemingly layers upon layers of dead foliage. sadly they don't get much farther than a few feet before the sky rips open and out pours an entire ocean.
the coat protects her for all of two seconds; even wool seems unwilling to do its job in the face of such torrential downpour, and marta can feel the wetness seep through all her layers right onto her skin. she can't even imagine how fet must feel with only his utility jacket to fend for him.
it actually doesn't occur to her to move yet. fet reacts much faster than her, as expected, pivoting opposite of the manor while she still stands frozen in place, water streaming down her face where an expression of shock has, frankly, no business being there. the reason she was out here at all was to warn him of this very thing, what's she standing around like an idiot for being surprised?
belatedly but eventually she turns too, running through puddles that seemed to have popped up out of nowhere to follow him into mr. proofroc's beloved home away from home... though upon entering, she realizes it is anything but cozy right now. with the man away on vacation, it has been poorly insulated, and while not as cold as it is outside, it's sadly not nearly warm enough to provide much reprieve.
her eyed sweep around the little space, trying to take stock of it all: his work desk full of papers and an outdated desktop computer, the shelves of monitors showing black and white camera footage (turned off for now), a woodstove tucked towards the opposite wall, a utility closet further down beside it. ]
H-Hypothermia can set in at temperatures as high as 40 degrees, [ she says around clattering teeth, like she were reading one of her textbooks. she's gripping her arms by the doorway, trying not to shake her skin right out of her bones.
she isn't panicking, but her brain does stall a little. it isn't until she sees fet that the nurse in her kicks into gear, because suddenly it isn't just her in danger here, and that's what finally gets her to move. ]
You have to take your c-clothes off.
[ she crosses the short distance between them, reaching for his jacket to start shoving it off his shoulders. ]
[ Vaguely he remembers reading somewhere that you actually get wetter running through rain instead of walking; but when it's coming down so hard, Fet's pretty sure that's total bullshit. Besides, this isn't some playful summer misting, but a miserable autumn deluge. The trees don't seem to provide helpful cover β if anything the overarching branches just direct gouts of rainwater into their path β and though it's not far to the gatehouse, by the time he slams open the door for them he's soaked through to the skin.
And Marta doesn't look much better off. Fet could curse himself twice over for dawdling out there like he did, but it'd be a waste of time; and if he doesn't quite equate the situation to being dunked in the midwinter Dnieper, he's not underestimating it either. ]
You okay?
[ An intent once-over is more to determine she wasn't hurt during their charge, didn't turn an ankle or scrape skin, than to confirm the obvious. That first chatter of teeth only reminds him adrenaline's no match for straight-up wet, cold and gross.
Then she's giving him that directive, and she's right there, right at his chest with her hands on his collar. Water runs into his face like somebody's still pouring it (the somebody is his hair, strands plastered down his brow like so much black seaweed) and he snaps his head to and fro, dog-like. The motion clears his vision in more ways than one, letting him really see the gatehouse's by-now familiar interior, instead of only her. ]
Alright, alright, [ he breathes out, not dismissively, just getting his shit together. Cooperating willingly if a bit sluggishly with his jacket's removal. ] But let me start up the woodstove, y-yeah?
[ He lays a hand on her arm, squeezing quick and light as he brushes past. Wool like a sodden rag, and even before he kneels at the opposite wall she's receiving a sharp-eyed backward glance. In the overhead lighting his face is especially eastern European-pale, still red in the cheeks, but whitened everywhere else. ]
You too, Jesus. It got us good. Keep any extra shirts down here? Blankets?
[ Mr. Proofroc gets a gold star for this, at least: there's a neat stack of logs readied by the stove. Fet shovels them in, working steadily to light the fire while his fingers are still pliable. ]
[ it's getting to be she can barely hear about the clattering of her teeth but she gets what he intends to do and lets him move past her with a sharp, stilted nod. the rest of her movements are like that, like the cold has already begun to freeze her limbs solid and every inch of movement feels like trying to twist blocks of ice.
his inquiry gets a wild shrug out of marta, her hands flaring out in a gesture of helplessness. ]
I've been down here twice, [ comes her helpful answer, wrenched out through gritted teeth in an attempt to quiet them.
without fet in front of her to wrest her fingers on she starts shedding her own layers, mind now kicking into a more practical overdrive thanks to his insistence. first goes that useless coat, plopping down onto the ground to meet his jacket. it'd grown ten times heavier soaked and she can feel a modicum of relief no longer having it weigh down her shoulders. next goes her cardigan, a knitted mess that only adds to the water quickly puddling at her feet. she's left in just a longsleeve and her jeans, but instead of working those off she turns on her heel and wrenches the utility closet open, hoping for something, anything they can change into.
it's as fruitful as you'd expect. save for what looks like a single garden glove the rest of the closet is filled with tools and other innocuous items that more showcase mr. proofroc's hidden hoarding tendencies than anything actually useful.
her remaining clothes have begun to cling to her skin (rather unfortunate she enjoys her cream knits so much), adding to the stiffness of her movements as she abandons the closet and begins to look around the rest of the space. success comes in the form of one single lap blanket (only slightly larger than a typical one) folded up neatly on proofroc's chair. she holds it up in her hands, the sinking realization looking all the more haggard on her own paling countenance.
slowly she turns back to fet, her victory very quickly overrun by the realization they'll both have to be naked. very very soon. ]
This... is all I could find.
[ outside, thunder finally booms like a toll bell, shaking the little gatehouse they've sought shelter in. ]
[ The flames in the woodstove catch on easy enough; it's only by the standards of current need that their speed seems sorely inadequate. As the logs begin to crackle Fet stands back up, slapping his palms together, then rubbing them hard over the length of his face. Attempting to regain some clarity of thought, far more than actual warmth.
One look over his shoulder illustrates exactly how fruitless Marta's search has proved, and he winces, not in consternation but sympathy. He certainly hadn't expected her to procure a miracle from Mr. Proofroc's domain. And any blame for the gatehouse's sorry lack of preparedness should rest most squarely on himself. He'd been the one fiddling around in here all morning, knowing the forecast, just figuring he'd wing it and be fine. An acceptable bet to hedge, when it's only his own stupid ass on the line.
But a certain heiress coming down to check on him shouldn't have fallen outside the realm of calculation. Fet still doesn't divert energy to comment on it β doesn't even mutter in apology, self-imprecation or regret β but he files it away, in a big mental ledger marked Shit Can't Happen Again. ]
That'll work, [ he nods at the measly scrap of blanket. Exactly like he wasn't just wishing for good Russian furs, a whole heaping pile to cover her in. ] Take off the rest of your stuff, wrap up in that. Then come here, here to the stove.
[ And at that he turns his back to her. Pretty fucking firmly, for a man whose trapezius is on the verge of spasming like a whipped horse's. Through deep breaths he tries to ride out the worst of the shivers, stripping off his shirt, and his belt which flicks a spray of droplets hissing onto the stove. ]
Don't f-feel weird about it, okay? Just like a bathhouse, minus the steam. [ There's an effort to put humor in his voice, casting it back without looking around (teeth clacking together on the bathhouse, probably altering the delivery). His boots kicked off, his jeans wriggled out of like some shapeshifting creature's waterlogged pelt. ]
[ is this the part where marta tells him she's never been in a bathhouse? but she stays quiet, recognizing his attempt at levity for what it is, merely nodding at his back as if he'd be able to see her response.
she should have turned around then, gone back to her own business and heed his advice. but as always he moves so much faster than her (always alarmingly so considering how much bigger, heavier he is) and before she knows it she's staring at a very broad, very naked back. one that really has no business feeling as scandalous as it does to be viewing in its bare entirety. her mouth falls open, surely to issue an apology, but she finds none but silence on her tongue. it's only once she hears the clink of his belt buckle that she realizes she's staring, prompting her to finally turn back around.
blanket dropped back down she refocuses her attention on stripping off the last few layers of wet clothing, all while trying to convince herself she hadn't just been tracing sharp lines of muscle with her eyes. she's being ridiculous. she's a nurse, a medical professional. she's seen and worked with the naked human body plenty of times. and this? this could well be a matter of life and death. it will only be weird if she makes it weird. get your shit together, cabrera.
she's just finished kicking off her jeans and toeing off her shoes and socks when something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. feeling her heart leap in her chest, marta hurries over to the corner of the room, finding a small but neat pile ofβ ]
Rags!
[ she straightens up, feeling a surge of triumph quell what would have been another bone-clacking shiver. in her hands are three rags, stained but clean, apparently used clearing off tree gunk from the cameras. they're a touch bigger than handtowels and still not much but β they're something. ]
You can use these to - to dry off or - or cover up or...
[ something. her voice trails off, realizing something.
did she just call his attention while she's only wearing a pair of panties?????????? ]
[ when she comes to, the world is slow to tilt back on its axis. aware, first, of the throbbing at the crown of her head, and then the blurriness of her vision as she blinks open one eye, then the other. what she sees first, like pulling herself to the surface of churning waters with weight-laden limbs: a section of a plush persian rug she knows to be the one in harlan's office because of its pattern... then next she notices the four sets of feet standing before her.
her first mistake: the low sound of confusion and inquiry that works its way out of her throat, sounding out before her memories can properly catch up to her and warn her β they come to her in flashes: a midnight cup of tea, a light left on down the hall, a scuffle of feet and snickers and then a sharp pain exploding behind her head β but by then it's too late, by then she's been heard.
none of the feet move, but her head is pulled back by the hair anyway (that's right, her mind sluggishly supplies, there were five), neck forced at an awkward angle as the rest of her body still works on catching up to her consciousness. she sucks in a deep breath, takes quick stock of herselfβ
legs tucked under her, on her knees but unbound. arms folded back behind her and held together by the wrists, something thin and strong, ziptie? a cloth gag wrenching her jaw apart, pressing against her tongue. that persistent throbbing at her head. a concussion?
βone of them is speaking.
All this money and you didn't even think to buff up your security? You're pretty much asking for it, aren't you?
they laugh.
things start to piece together a bit more coherently then. marta remembers waking up that evening, plagued by another stress-induced nightmare that left her unable to drift back to sleep like she'd liked. she'd gotten up, careful to keep her footsteps light so as not to disturb fet who was surely sound asleep down the hall, and walked herself to the kitchen to try and make herself some chamomile tea. she hadn't even gotten to put any water in the kettle before she noticed the light streaming in from harlan's office; she even remembers wondering to herself how she managed to forget to shut it off earlier that day as she wandered back in to take care of it...
she blinks the memory away, forcing herself to focus on the people in front of her. all men, from the looks of their build, dressed in dark colors (nice clothing, expensive clothing), ski masks. marta has seen enough police dramas to recognize the intent here, and her stomach churns anxiously, but any attempts to swallow down her fear just result on dry, choked gulps.
the men laugh again.
Shit he never told us you were cute.
Bet he just wanted to keep her for himself.
She's Spanish or something, right? That's hot.
wide, frantic eyes flick from one face to the other, hoping to find even a sliver of sympathy, remorse. when all she sees is keen interest and gleeful malice, she looks towards the door, searching and desperate. she watches, heart dropping like lead into the pit of her gut, as five sets of eyes follow hers. her second mistake.
Ah ah, don't even think about it.
one of the men move quickly to close the door shut and stand guard there while the one behind her tugs her head back further, forcing her back to bow awkwardly.
Get her up on the chair, hurry. Soon as we get these pictures we can get outta here. This place gives me the creeps.
What did we agree on? Just her underwear?
Nah, everyone posts up in their underwear now. It's gotta be the full monty.
she's pulled up to her feet, knees buckling from the surprise of it, but before she can even crumple she's being dragged to the chair centered right in front of the thousand knives display. they get three steps and marta knows β knowing the layout of this office like the back of her hand β that her only chance is now. wrenching herself out of the man's hold she half-lunges, half-stumbles into a tall porcelain vase, sending it and herself crashing to the floor.
[ For a homebody who can do oddly well staying over at other people's places, Fet's also not the deepest sleeper. He recharges easily, generally, on whatever shuteye he gets; but it's not unusual for him to wake up realizing it was only some mundane noise, pipes rattling or a backfiring truck, that brought him into consciousness. So when he rolls out from under the duvet in a Thrombey mansion guest bed, heaving a breath and blinking against the dark, it's not instantly disturbing to him. Probably just a house noise, appropriately sized to the house, or Marta shutting a door somewhere down the hall.
Still, instead of flopping right back down he sits there, listening. He's aware that she succumbs to insomnia even later and more frequently than him. What fixes him upright then isn't the urge to run out and check on her, but a pang of commiseration β and something sweeter than a pang, if bitter-leaning, that runs through his veins. At the thought of her moving around in the night, close enough it'd only be so many bounds without these walls between them: alone, but also not.
(And to further lessen the not, Christ. But the stumbling blocks to that will follow him into dreams.)
Then the timbre of a man's voice filters into his room, wordless, well-muffled, but instinctually recognizable. And between one moment and the next all that languid wistful longing shit is gone. Crudely severed, a trap-torn rat's tail falling to the floor. Because he knows it's something off, something ugly. If Marta had informed him earlier she'd be entertaining a pack of publishing house shareholders all night, he'd still just fucking know.
Fet's pretty light on his feet, slipping out of bed and into the hall. Helps that he's in socks and sweats, though for someone his size he's never been a heavy-treader (unless he's playing it up to needle some prim customer, stumping around in his work boots like the oaf they expect). But he's not even trying to Elmer Fudd it, 'cause in his mind ugly doesn't equal intruder. His first thought's that one of the old man's jackal pups came slinking around, Marta allowed them in for a late night audience β why, he can't imagine, but she's gotta have her reasons. And if it's sketchy of him not to announce he's about to stick his nose in, intrude on whatever vitriol they're spewing... well, buddy, get ready for a snootful.
No sooner has he identified the voice's location as that sprawling office with the knives than two things happen. Fet realizes there are voices, plural; and actual speech begins to emerge, competing with sources, yet inescapably clear.
βSO LOUD, for fuck's sake! What if someoneβ
βdid our homework, alright? Nobody's around for a couple hours, so chill.
She's gonna flip out again, look at herβ
Half a second into understanding, his brain runs it all down. At least three of them, maybe more from the way the sounds bounce around. No Glock in the truck (CCW license doesn't apply interstate, which hasn't always stopped him, but he's behaved himself lately), no chance of his going that far anyway. What's recollected of the room's layout springs up in 3D, exit points, obstacles, potential weapons. Not that he's going in empty-handed. From the hallway he selects the closest sturdy object that'll give him both reach and repeat hits: a brass knob walking cane, as it happens. (Fet doesn't know that, just spots a stand full of antique-looking sticks with metal bits and thinks, okay).
Closer to the shut door he slides, back to the wall. Once through he'll have an instant to mark them, how many and what they might be carrying, then it's gone. Outnumbered like this, best bet's to do as much damage as you can, quick as you can. A blunt instrument tactic, maybe, but still a strategy, and he's used it to good effect before.
You guys are the ones tweaking! Just strip her, get it done.
Those words cut through. And strategy?
Flies out the goddamn grand windows.
He kicks the door in. Feels it connect with somebody's spine and blasts through the recoil, freight-train style. The door-guarder's still hurtling to the floor as Fet leaps the first bearskin trip hazard. Figures whirling through his sight
(the flash of four shocked pairs of mask-bared eyes, chair under the corona of blades, Marta a blur of dark-hair-blanched-face low to the carpet with one guy looming above)
before he barrels head-on, head-down. Using his forearms like a battering ram as he body slams the chaise lounge, and the coffee table right behind. Sending a plow load of heirloom furniture straight into the knees of the two men on his far side.
He doesn't exactly pause to see how they make out. Off the apex of his own momentum he lunges for the guy nearest Marta. Gonna have to be more of a lunge-fall, 'cause he's going way too fast, but it gets him closer and that's fine. Can't wield the stick the way he'd wanted, no room and no time, so as he skids over the rug he just short-jabs the bronze head up into a collarbone. And a short-jab from him's still got some weight behind it; so when he senses more than hears the flesh-swaddled crack of bone, it's exactly the result he'd expected.
Takes the dude a sec, finding enough air for a garbled howl. But once he finds it it's like they all do, and the shouting pummels his ears from every side. That's a gentle precursor, though, to the fists of the one he'd missed. That fourth fucking guy, falling on Fet's fresh-sprawled form with all proper vengeance. ]
on this day we give thanks for fet going absolutely FERAL π
[ no one β not even marta, whose last ditch stumble into that porcelain vase had been in the desperate hope of waking the only other soul in the home β fully realizes what's happening as it does. fet's explosion into the room may as well have been born out of nitroglycerin itself for all the destruction and chaos it causes, and all the clamor that comes after. amidst all that, marta is silent in her shock, fear freezing any sound in her throat, worried for that millisecond before that first furniture connects to shins that the figure bulldozing its way into the room had been with them.
but no harm befalls her; instead the man holding her down is shoved away, broken from the sounds of things, punctuated by a milk-curdling howl marta knows she'll still hear for nights to come. she had seen a flash of pale skin and ink β vasiliy, he'd come after all! β and instinct finally kicks in, tells her to move.
she scrambles aside, away, tries to get up to her feet despite being so disoriented from the fray. by the time she finally twists around to get a better look at what's happening, the fifth man descends upon fet, fists wailing on unprotected skin. she screams but the sound is muffled behind her gag, soon swallowed up by the frantic shouts from the other men who've managed to recollect themselves.
What the fuckβ?!
I told you, I fuckin' told you I heard somethin'β
Shut up and hold him down, he's getting up again!
marta watches in horror as the three other men move to help the fifth, gathering up weapons from around the room along the way. she shouts again, but her feet carry her there faster, throwing her whole weight onto the one closest just as he raises the iron firepoker in his hands.
[ As the hits start connecting Fet's world narrows to only that, his locomotive assault abruptly rail-switched onto a defensive track. Though even then he has a juggernaut's absorption of all movement, plunging ahead full steam; there's not really any other option.
The cane gets knocked from his grip, so he opens both arms to the guy's fists. Throws them around the striking fore like it's been delivering little love bites. Grappling cozy and tight till the guy is forced to roll, and Fet pins him with his weight β angling back for a punch till somebody grabs at his right hand
(Marta's gagged scream piercing the din, painfully firing his veins, an injection of speed overamped)
so it seems easier to just bash his skull into the dude's face. Driving down with the crown of his head, staving in the nose under the mask, gouging his own skin on the guy's stupid teeth bared in his stupid yelling mouth; though after this the yelling cuts off real quick.
Fet hurls himself upward, wheeling in place. Caned fucker's still crouched among vase fragments (more mourning the shards of his clavicle) and Mr. Rearranged Septum shows no signs of bouncing back into the ring. Which leaves three men, the one he'd flattened via that dramatic entrance having regained his feet. Two of them already making swipes at him, but slowed by the third's predicament
βdo something about her!
Marta falling to the floor as that guy stumbles under her weight. Through Fet's sight blazes a glimpse of her bound wrists, rawed flesh, zip-ties dug in. And though of course he should go for the two closest men β bowl them over like a wrecking ball, then worry about clean-up β he crosses the space to the third in a few broad leaps. Brings his knee up into the other man's chest, where he's clutched the iron poker's bar mid-stagger; which on Fet's end does not fucking tickle. But it has the advantage of knocking the wind out of the guy, indisputably.
He's swinging the leg back around, trying to plant himself between remaining upright dudes and Marta, when the last two tackle. One around the waist, like some overeager kid glomping a Chewbacca cosplayer (it's almost kinda cute). And the second by way of a lamp stand javelined straight into Fet's ribs (interestingly improvisatory, but cute? Nah). ]
[ marta isn't sure what it is that has her body tucking in and rolling away at the last second, but in doing so she just narrowly misses the charging locomotive of fet's unbridled fury.
—though, is that really accurate? while there's no denying the rage fueling his actions here (and it has to be rage, or at least something adjacent; what else can power the blows to land like they do?) to call it unrestrained seems misleading. there's almost something eerie in the way these movements feel controlled, thought out. a rage not so much blind as it is tunnel-visioned. focused.
it is, in many ways, a far more frightening thing to consider.—
she rolls back onto her knees seconds later than she means to, missing the last two intruders' approach. by the time she can look, the three have become one indistinguishable blob of dark fabric and pale skin. she hears a shout, sees a jab, hears a grunt and a scream (wait, that's her own)— a bruise blossoms near instantly on skin once clear and marta's legs feel like jelly, refusing to work with her in her bid to get back up, do something, move. ]
[ Fet isn't some badass automaton, ignorant of and thus impervious to pain. He feels it when the lamp lands. But what keeps him from curling in on himself, more even than adrenaline, is familiarity. Lots of het-up brawlers will still reel a bit with the shock of initial blows, whether received or delivered: those first couple right hooks, the moment knuckles turn from reddened to split. But you do it enough, walk away miraculously un-concussed enough, you learn how not to freeze in the headlights of hurt. (And if that goddamn Prius is too speedy, runs you over anyway? At least you dashed your deeriest.)
So as the stand jams and scrapes across his own flesh he grabs ahold, keeps ahold. Like the guy on the other end, who threw his considerable weight (whatever else these douchebags are they're not conveniently scrawny) behind the thrust; and who's not prepared to switch gears all that quick. Which means when Fet lets his legs buckle, toppling like a felled tree, that guy β and his buddy giving out free hugs β comes along for the timber.
It's risky, falling down again like this. But if he's not in Hail Mary territory his fighting intuition ain't so great. (Riskier still, and not a little ironic, that he doesn't spot Marta first. The very figure he's trying to protect becomes the one he can't focus on. But this is how it goes in a scrum; at some point it's just crushable bodies, and the buried hope that anything not has gotten well off the field.)
Then he's on the carpet, and if he moved kinda crazily before, now it's like playing a game of Twister with a Viking berserker. His whole frame lashes out, the full-body muscular strikes of an animal incensed, heedless of personal injury in the quest to inflict maximum harm. Crashing into furniture, shelves, more knocked-down knick knacks than you can shake a just-rolled-across-that-goddamn-walking-stick at β
(from the rooms' corners a blur of dark clothes, but they're jerking back, no Marta-shape among them; and there's a whole bunch of noise he can't discern but which basically amounts to FUCK THISβ)
Lamp Lover takes a hefty elbow to the groin, crumples away like a tossed rag; gets a chair kicked into his ass for good measure, as Fet flings his limbs around like the chains on a dual flail. His waist-cuddler's dislodged, but the guy gains enough space to scramble halfway up, fumbling from his pocket a can of pepper spray: no joke, though later Fet'll find it hilarious. Right now he just hammer-swings at the offending hand, clutching some hard object careened into on the floor (it's a gargoyle statue, but he doesn't even see it). The pepper spray spins through the air, the guy looses a snared-rabbit screech; and Fet follows it to the source, maddened yet homed in as the neck-snapping beast too long thwarted.
His own blood's wet and warm in his eye when he brings down his fist, getting in that solid punch at last. But it feels so good, so fucking finally, he does it again, and again. ]
days from now, during the quiet parts of the night when the caffeine has left her system and insomnia has kicked in, she'll no doubt spend hours turning these handful of moments over in her mind. constantly replaying and wondering what she could have done differently. how she could have helped.
whether intentionally or not, the men wind up taking the fight away from her, so that even as she stays frozen in her spot, she is out of reach from all the destruction. but the downside to not being a participant is you're left as the audience, stuck watching bodies crash and fumble and fists fly like she's got her own private macabre show.
she's a nurse. blood doesn't bother her β and after seeing harlan do what he did, blood has no right to bother her ever again β and yet there's something to be said about seeing it like this, as a direct result of violence. about seeing it paint the faces and figures of the people she cares about.
she flinches with every landed blow. feels her stomach churn every time the masked man warbles in pain, throws his hands up in an attempt to make fet stop, only for those hands to be shoved away. she hears more than sees the rest of the men pick themselves up and stagger-run right out of the room, back into their perfectly polished bentleys, leaving behind their own to show there's truly no honor among thieves.
the warbling stops. only low moans now. a pathetic sound, one that shouldn't make marta feel as conflicted as she does. but it finally gets her to move. finally gets her back on her feet. one step, two steps. three and then she's right there, right behind them, close enough she can lean forward, press her forehead to the inked eagle on fet's back.
she draws in a shaky breath, realizes belatedly that her gag had fallen off in the scuffle. when she speaks, her voice sounds so very far away. ]
[ Aside from the rhythm of his own breathing, and those few harder exhalations when he took hits, throughout the fight Fet's been oddly silent. He's certainly not above making a vocal ruckus during beatdowns, shouting and snarling with the best of them; and there's probably some science about how that's all wasted energy. Yet he understands that in the moment they're often necessary, these seemingly theatrical sounds of aggression. Part and parcel of what psychs you up, drives you forward foot and fist.
But he hasn't needed them here. Whether or not that's more to do with the situation's severity β because those briefly overheard words had told him exactly how bad shit could be, because despite the frenzy and focus and subconscious do-what-I'm-built-for thrill he's never once forgotten it β the end result is this. He's voiceless, close-lipped as a hushed parishioner. Even as his blood sings with the right of it, pulping this guy for what he
(for what they, all those fuckers, past-present-future, any and every last one of them)
had done, and tried to do.
Then, between one whimper from the mask-coated mess under his hands and the next, there's that bird's-wing pressure at his back. His bare skin doesn't so much as quake with a stifled flinch. He knows, accepts her nearness though every other grazing in the last two minutes had him viciously rounding, before she's uttered a word. (Her voice may ring distant in her own ears, but in his it's crystal clear.)
The readiness in his right arm drains away. Until he drops it, at the same time straightening, getting his feet properly under him once more. As he turns to face Marta he's reaching for her too, palms skimming her shoulders; feeling the twist in them from her back-bound wrists. The glance he casts over her is the same as his touch, confirming where she's hurt, and where she's all right, with a leashed kind of desperateness. ]
Okay. [ Fet's syllables fall strangely in the wrecked room, newly emptied of four other bodies. He peers into each corner, listens to the sudden quiet in the hall and outside; checks the beaten figure still lying supine at their feet. Heat ramps through his flesh in every battered place, not truly conquered yet by soreness, though it's calculating arrival times. But he looks back at her, and it's β ]
Okay, [ comes her small echo in response, a mere shadow of his own reply, a whisper of a whisper. strange how still everything feels now, where two seconds ago the very air in the den had felt electric, alive. not even the body at fet's feet has a twitch or a twinge to spare, but the shallow rise and fall of the chest is evidence enough that it is not something worth worrying over for the moment so marta's attention is free to remain on fet, guilt-free.
she's still as he looks her over, under the passing of those large, bloody hands. it's funny; she thought for a second there she might fear him, or at the very least flinch under the weight of those hands after seeing for herself what violence and harm they can do β and yet she feels a strange sort of calmness settle over her, like she were comforted to know he'd done all that for her... and sorrow that he'd had to.
she assesses him too. she can't help but, not after all her years of schooling and working, and certainly not after all the worry that'd manifested like a knot in her throat. with one lamp down (a lamp. jammed into his ribs!) there isn't a lot of light left to look him over completely, but her eyes are still keen to make out the most obvious issues. she tries and fails not to feel her heart wrench with every bruise and every cut, wishing desperately she could tell which blood was his and which wasn't... feeling terrible that she wishes it were more of the latter.
(and, somehow simultaneously, she runs her own self-assessment; save for the strain on her shoulders and the rawing around her wrists, she can sense a small cut beside her brow, trailing blood down the side of her face, likely from when she'd crashed into that vase. all of that, a mere papercut in comparison. it doesn't feel fair that she wind up so relatively unscathed, when she is at the very center of it.) ]
I'mβ
[ another apology (she's had so many for him), choked around the stifled sound of a sob. her throat closes, her eyes water, till all she can do is shake her head from the wrongness of it all. she tilts under his hands, leans forward again until she's in the circle of his arms, face to chest, head to heart. ]
[ After the big soiree Fet figured he and Marta'd be kinda tuckered out. Not exactly primed for a long ride back to the Thrombey estate. So he drives them both to a little off-the-beaten-path bed and breakfast, where he'd booked separate rooms for the night. Truthfully he couldn't give two shits about the quaintness of the place. But given Marta's unfortunate notoriety in the area, it seemed like something off-brand was the best bet for their stay.
No sooner do they pull into the lot than he starts having second thoughts. The place is really little, like less "bed and breakfast" than "shack and shit-on-a-shingle." There are barely any lights on, and inside the lobby seems abandoned β despite the owner's assurances that an after-midnight checkin would be no issue at all β dinger on the counter failing to summon anyone, no matter how many times Fet freakin' dings.
It's a ghosttown, albeit one festooned like the specter of Christmases crustily past. The whole downstairs is strung with artificial garlands and wreaths, their plasticky greens faded to pukey chartreuse, cobwebs nestling in the leaves. A giant, inappropriately creepy Santa doll looms in one corner; Fet suspects it's one of those motion-activated obscenities that will scream HO HO HO the second you stray too close. And it smells like someone threw up musty peppermint all over a Yankee candle. ]
Welp. Fitting end to the evening, right?
[ He starts to turn to where Marta waits, sheepish as a schoolboy in his shirt sleeves (somewhere back at the ballroom he'd lost his suit jacket). But he forgets about the goddamn dusty decorations, hanging low from the rafters like booby traps for Big n' Tall; and he smacks face-first into a white-berried sprig. ]
[ one evening's experience tells marta that her tolerance for finer living is three hours, two thrombeys, and so many floating glasses of champagne she definitely lost count. but while the middle of the evening was far from perfect, the start had been a lovely reunion between friends, and the end is looking to be its own brand of adventure.
truthfully, she finds the little bed-and-breakfast rather cute. a molotov cocktail of kitschy and eerie and seasonally-appropriate that would have been right up harlan's alley. she could practically see the man whipping out his little moleskin for notes.
it helps, too, that's she's worked up a lovely little buzz by now, putting a seemingly permanent half-smile on her lips, and a warmth to her skin where that slip of a dress of hers would have otherwise left her quite chilly. she doesn't notice fet's disappointment over their situation, but she definitely notices when he walks right into foliage in front of her. ]
Vas! [ she's concerned, of course she's concerned, don't let the sudden bubble of laughter her words are tripping over fool you into thinking otherwise. ] Are you okay? Let me seeβ
[ fake or not, those little branches looked pretty formidable, especially if one were to get anywhere near an eye. her heels sadly don't provide her much more height than she's usually got, not with how much taller he is to begin with, so she's still left having to lean up while coaxing him to look down, because the last thing this detour into a stephen king novel needs is a gouged eye or accidental poisoning. ]
[ He may be a bit befuddled by their lodgings, and the attack of holiday tchotchke doesn't help. But it's failed to gouge out his eyeball, and half a second later he's snorting a laugh over the echo of Marta's bubble. ]
I'm fine, I'm fineβ [ Leaning down for her anyway, because he knows she won't be satisfied till she checks for herself. Taking the hand she's reached up toward his face, scooping her slender fingers atop his with the same ease he'd shown on the dance floor.
And it had been easy, hadn't it? Easy like any good time with a friend. They'd danced and drank (well, Marta had; with his driving he'd have made sure nothing put a dent, even had stronger than champagne been on offer); they'd weathered the weirdness and trumped the Thrombeys, far as Fet's concerned. Because they'd enjoyed themselves, in spite of it all. They'd laughed, she'd laughed. And if sometimes the warmth of her bare back slid into the cup of his palm just so, so what?
He hadn't let it get to him, not the way he'd worried about somewhere mostly buried down deep. He'd proven to himself he can be around her, without making shit weirder for her. So that on top of everything else, and despite current circumstances, the night feels safe. ]
Friggin' mistletoe, [ he mutters through the hitch of laughter. Blinking the last of the dust from his eyes. Lips bowing wide in that dumb grin he gets, like he's one instant away from guffawing. Like they're two meathead buds at a bar and somebody's roaring KISS! KISS! KISS! and it's just hilarious, 'cause it's so stupidly predictable, and also never gonna happen.
But he looks down into her face, still flushed from the party and the heat of the car. Hair mussed in a way that's not mussed so much as temptingly disarranged; eyes flashing flecks of green like a taunt to the shade of her dress beneath. That goddamn dress, the one he's been trying not to stare at all nightβ
And Fet's gaze falls to her mouth. Stays there, natural as breathing. ]
[ the sound of his laugh is all she needs to know he's as fine as he says, even if she knows him to be the kind to laugh off a gunshot wound if the mood calls for it. still, she's as dutiful as ever, gently cradling both sides of his head to get a good look at where the offending foliage has whacked him dead-on, but true to his reassurances, apart from a little splattering of red spreading across the irritated skin there's nary a cut or scrape. ]
Your pride's probably taken the worst of it, but I don't think you can sue for that.
[ by now, the closeness is a familiar one. this close, they've laughed, they've cried (alright it was mostly her), but they've run a pretty range of emotions huddled together like this, and yet somehow this moment still finds a way to be novel. maybe it's the inn. maybe it's dress. maybe it's the bubbly still warming her up, but not nearly as warm as the feel of his hands on her skin, of his breath mingling with her own.
maybe it's the way she catches him look at her sometimes, the way she's looking at him too. the way he's looking at her now like she wants him to.
honestly, it would be a very stupid thing to do. ]
It's tradition, right?
[ but he's still got his head lowered so close, and her hands are still cupping his cheeks like she means to steal his smile away, and sometimes stupid doesn't necessarily mean wrong. she's leaning up before she can second-guess herself anyway.
it's fine. it's fine. what's a little kiss between friends? ]
[ Her first words have him huffing another chuckle, more prolonged and almost goofily wheezy than one might expect. Because in all honesty Fet's a little bit buzzed himself. And of course it isn't the bubbly, it's everything else. It's standing here with her in this crackpot Christmas den, feeling her hands on his face. Inhaling the smell of her, that sliced-pears tang of good champagne mixed with her skin's natural scent (remembered from that single night in her bed; remembered every night since in his own)β
Then she says it. It's tradition, right? Like something out of those Hallmark movies he loves to bust on. Only from Marta is seems reasonable and yeah, right. Like fuckin'-A it's a tradition, it's a fun one and they can share it and snort-laugh about it after just the same. He got through all the rest. He can get through a single kiss between friends.
Yet as she leans up he drops his eyes all the way to floor. Bashful like some towering virgin fresh-picked for spin the bottle. The same degree of self-consciousness, half-amused and half-stricken, all bunched in his mouth still smiling, so with that first brush she'll feel its awkward shape.
But the press of her lips swiftly bleeds him of tension. One moment Vasiliy's hands are hanging stiff, a damned gangly marionette with cut strings; the next they're lifting to skim her shoulders. Tracing her skin precisely, as much by mind's eye as through touch alone. (For all the times tonight he'd looked on her arms: their long elegant lines, their naked contours.) ]
[ she realizes her mistake the moment she makes it. the moment their lips touch on a soft sigh (hers? or his?) and she finds herself divest of every excuse in the book. "tradition," she says. like she hadn't wondered about this in the loneliest of nights, when he's too far away and she's run out of reasons to call or text him. like she hasn't caught herself thinking about it right when he's in front of her, eyes crinkled around a laugh that's all cheeks and hearty guffaws. like she hasn't wished he'd thought about it too, enough to act on it where she's too cowardly to. or she had been, anyway.
to be clear, the mistake isn't that she's kissed him; it's that she's only kissed him now, under the silliest of guises. that their first will always be because of this, some silly sprig of flora and a tradition no one's even around to expect them to uphold. that the first time she melts into his arms and his lips hadn't been because they'd both been aching for it, or that the moment was just right. surely it was deserving of more than what it became?
but what's done is done, and it isn't like marta's stopping herself. nor is she holding back. a mistake though it may be, but a chance it is as well, and it's one she is not about to let slip. bolstered by the champagne literally loosening her lips, marta leans further into the kiss the instant she feels him acquiesce, slipping her hands into the curl of his hair, gripping firm. her heels can only take her so far, but she rises as high as she can go, fitting herself into the space his body makes for her like she doesn't mean to part again. for that moment she sheds away the uncertainties that had held her back before and instead she is lips, teeth, tongue.
one thing's for certain β it's definitely not a kiss between friends. ]
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[ A week into his stay at WASP Murder Mystery Manor, and Vasiliy Fet is weirdly comfortable. Or at least it might seem weird to those who know him only as the NYC devotee, as committed to her literal underground as he is his utilitarian loft apartment. But those people don't often realize he's spent good chunks of time away from home, pursuing outside of his work more or less indirectly-related interests. Which range from other cities' architecture to building projects to, well, ranges. Places he can practice shooting and blowing shit up, in ways that don't always fall neatly within legalities. So he knows how to crash at somebody's pad out in the boonies; just like he knows how not to lose himself (via non-structural fascination, anyway) in a rich person's house.
Of course things are a little different, here. This stop-off wasn't exactly on his vacation itinerary, and Marta... she's neither a casual acquaintance playing host, nor an aloof employer reluctantly putting him up. He sees her every day, they talk every day. When he emerges from the attic covered in dust like clown powder, when he tramps through the mansion's floors humming notes that belong in a circus lineup, when he says some crude and goofy shit over meals in her kitchen (late night snacks are the worst, proving that she witnessed him at Denny's on good behavior; feed him after 12 AM and Fet's generally like a reverse gremlin, progressively sillier) β
Through it all Marta treats him the same. Like somebody she's pleased, in a relatively lighthearted if genuine way, just to have around. Like a friend, however newfound. And while he's not sure what to do with that long-term, since he doesn't really do friends, period β since he'll be going home at some point, the knowledge of which naturally buoys his comfort in other people's spaces as much as anything else β for now, it's nice.
Even nicer than he'd guessed it'd be, accepting her invitation.
When he finishes with the bats, boards up the cracks where they got in and cleans up the mess, Fet naturally seeks other tasks. As offered he's available to help move boxes; and if Marta doesn't need him for that, he's soon shot the shit with the grounds staff so much, they look to involve him. Not unduly; he never gets the sense that anyone still employed on the estate is taking advantage, either of him or the inheritress's good will. But he's amiable and handy, and he's here. If privately they wonder further about the why's and the for how long's, it doesn't stop them accepting the exterminator's willingness to pitch in elsewhere.
Which is how he finds himself fiddling with a security camera that's goddamn ancient, by today's standards, affixed to a tree out by the main drive.
From their brief introduction, the old guy in charge of the gatehouse seems well-meaning. But when he takes a couple days off and Fet hears a camera's gone down, it's not really a shocker. He's got doubts how nimble the guy'd be on a ladder; plus what he's glimpsed of the equipment looks straight out of the 90s, including a dogged reliance on VHS that would've been dated fifteen years ago, let alone now.
Fortunately Fet's fortyish enough to be old buddies with analog. The system gives him far less trouble than the camera's housing itself, since it appears to have been nail-gunned between multiple tree branches. By the time he untangles the wiring, patches it up and reassembles the whole mess, he's covered in pine sap and needles, twigs in his hair and bits of bark pasted across one cheek (where at one point he'd inadvertently necked with the trunk).
He's still not quite finished when the rain that's been threatening all morning really starts to roll up its sleeves. With how gloomy it's grown between the pines he can tell the sky's a lowering mess, though it's visible to him only in thin grey slices. Any remaining daylight promises to quit early, ushering in the kind of autumn storm that grips well into the night: thunderless, but determinedly soaking, and that much worse for the fact it's frickin' cold.
And it's stupid, to stay out here just daring it to start. But he's fallen prey to the old handyman's lament: might as well keep going, 'cause I'm almost done, almost. ]
no subject
in america they have a saying: the truth shall set you free. does that mean she's doing it wrong, if the truth only makes her feel more trapped?
no, she did not in fact administer a lethal dosage of morphine to harlan that ultimately led to his suicide. but she thought she did. he thought she did. harlan's last thought of her was a perceived mistake, and he died because he thought it was the only way to help her. would he still be around, if she had been brave enough not to fear the consequences? she had been selfish then, just like she's being selfish now. still holding onto his gifts even though she failed him, and as of yet no amount of using his money to help her family has fully cleared her conscience yet. so it helps to keep busy. it helps to be distracted.
in the week since her arrangement with fet she has been bouncing between obligations, staying up late to pour over documents again just like she were back in college, studying for exams, and being a gracious host offering him reprieve and work whenever he should need either. she still hasn't decided what to do with harlan's things, so fet's services have been relegated to pest control and breakfasts the both of them can wake up to. unsurprisingly, his handiness extends past that, so marta isn't all that surprised when he starts to find other work to do around the estate. at some point, she wondered why he remained β his work with the bats was done, finished in only a small handful of days, and yet when the next day came he had been in the kitchen that morning, still making breakfast and already starting on that day's crossword waiting for marta to tag in like she has been. she probably should've said something, but she finds herself talking about everything else but new york, his life there, just in case it would somehow break whatever spell was keeping him here.
tomorrow, she keeps telling herself. tomorrow she'll bring it up. but then tomorrow ended up being two and three tomorrows, and still the words keep dying in her throat. he finds more work to do, and she lets him do it. today marks a departure from that, but only in the sense she'll be asking him to pause, not stop. ]
Vasiliy, you should come in now.
[ she stands at the base of the tree he's perched on, huddled under a thick woolen coat and squinting up through the branches at him. behind her the house stands waiting at the end of the long driveway, the backdrop of dark, angry clouds giving it its full effect. ]
It's supposed to be a big one.
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Oh, hey β [ He cranes his neck around, peering down at her with his face half sheepish, half unexpectedly pleased. ]
I know, I know. Tryin' to weld right through the bell, like my shop teach used to say.
[ Conceding defeat, much as it irks him, Fet leaves the work unfinished and swings away from the trunk. There's no ladder, he didn't even have to go that far up. So in two shakes of a branch and his boots he's climbed down, hit the ground and turned to Marta with a little crooked grin. ]
And lemme guess, you strolled all the way down here 'stead of driving, too.
[ He sweeps his glance over her, standing there close in that proper coat. Though his expression doesn't waver, he's seeing straight through all the seeming lightheartedness he just got done considering. How it's not fake, the chats and the crosswords and the contentment with his being here. But still only a surface layer, barely covering β
Well. So much other shit.
And he's thinking how right now she reminds him most of the night they met, bundled up in that stupid Denny's parking lot. Looking not delicate, in spite of everything, but for all the world like she could use a good hug. Which he isn't about to initiate, not then, not now; but he thinks about it, alright. ]
How you holding up?
[ Fet's breath steams on the words, as much from the humidity as the chill; and a fat raindrop ricochets off a branch into his brow (he tells himself the trees are just dripping β like, from what?). But he stays in place, like her answering is everything and the literal power of the weather, nothing. ]
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she steps off to the side when she sees him about to make his final leap to the ground, half expecting the earth to rattle on its axis in response. instead there is just the lovely crunch of autumnal leaves and dried twigs giving way to his boots. her own tennis shoes don't make quite as much of a dent, so she doesn't get to enjoy the same kind of auditory catharsis.
when he points out her lack of transportation, she just shrugs, her own smile cavalier. ]
The dogs wanted to go for a walk.
[ the very same dogs that are always free to roam on their own? the ones that, currently, aren't anywhere to be found nearby? yes, those dogs.
she lingers on his question, as curious to know the answer to it as he is. in the end she settles on another shrug, a noncommittal, ] I'm holding.
[ that morning had her in two hours-long meetings, both very necessary, but also incredibly draining. she's looking forward to the storm, in all honesty. bundled up in her bed under a thick blanket, losing herself to a random book she'll pull off of harlan's shelves.
when that raindrop falls on fet's brow, her hand twitches with the sudden urge to wipe it off. she has to look away just do she doesn't end up giving in. ]
How's the work here? Mr. Proofroc felt bad he couldn't cancel his trip to stay and help.
[ she's simply relaying a message here, but there's a tone in her voice that suggests the older guard's presence would have been more hurt than help and they both know it. ]
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Is what it is, yeah? [ Still smiling from his mouth's corner, he steps closer to her. Voice even and surprisingly gentled under the trees: not like they're muffling it, only failing to raise it. (And if it's not clear whether he means Marta's holding or his task, the way he goes on, it kinda just works.) ]
Nah, he shouldn't feel bad. [ His tone answering the something in hers, conveying that he knows the old guy does his best, even if his best ain't up to snuff; that like the rest Mr. Proofroc is what he is. ] Still deserves his vacation.
[ Smacking leaf litter and dirt off his jeans, he heads for the road, though not before waiting for Marta to fall in step. ]
Won't take much more to get that camera back up. Whole system could use an update, though. Not like you don't know it. Could go wireless out here, hell, even a wired DVR β
[ Like a missed cue, that's when the full-out rain hurls itself onto center stage. There's only a brief preceding gust, a patter through the woods like scampering feet; then the sky simply starts upending buckets. Fet flings his arm out over Marta's head β like that'll do jack, long as it is β even as sheets of water hit him right in the face. ]
Nam pizdets, c'mon! [ And he reorients them, swearingly, toward a run for the gatehouse. ]
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the coat protects her for all of two seconds; even wool seems unwilling to do its job in the face of such torrential downpour, and marta can feel the wetness seep through all her layers right onto her skin. she can't even imagine how fet must feel with only his utility jacket to fend for him.
it actually doesn't occur to her to move yet. fet reacts much faster than her, as expected, pivoting opposite of the manor while she still stands frozen in place, water streaming down her face where an expression of shock has, frankly, no business being there. the reason she was out here at all was to warn him of this very thing, what's she standing around like an idiot for being surprised?
belatedly but eventually she turns too, running through puddles that seemed to have popped up out of nowhere to follow him into mr. proofroc's beloved home away from home... though upon entering, she realizes it is anything but cozy right now. with the man away on vacation, it has been poorly insulated, and while not as cold as it is outside, it's sadly not nearly warm enough to provide much reprieve.
her eyed sweep around the little space, trying to take stock of it all: his work desk full of papers and an outdated desktop computer, the shelves of monitors showing black and white camera footage (turned off for now), a woodstove tucked towards the opposite wall, a utility closet further down beside it. ]
H-Hypothermia can set in at temperatures as high as 40 degrees, [ she says around clattering teeth, like she were reading one of her textbooks. she's gripping her arms by the doorway, trying not to shake her skin right out of her bones.
she isn't panicking, but her brain does stall a little. it isn't until she sees fet that the nurse in her kicks into gear, because suddenly it isn't just her in danger here, and that's what finally gets her to move. ]
You have to take your c-clothes off.
[ she crosses the short distance between them, reaching for his jacket to start shoving it off his shoulders. ]
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And Marta doesn't look much better off. Fet could curse himself twice over for dawdling out there like he did, but it'd be a waste of time; and if he doesn't quite equate the situation to being dunked in the midwinter Dnieper, he's not underestimating it either. ]
You okay?
[ An intent once-over is more to determine she wasn't hurt during their charge, didn't turn an ankle or scrape skin, than to confirm the obvious. That first chatter of teeth only reminds him adrenaline's no match for straight-up wet, cold and gross.
Then she's giving him that directive, and she's right there, right at his chest with her hands on his collar. Water runs into his face like somebody's still pouring it (the somebody is his hair, strands plastered down his brow like so much black seaweed) and he snaps his head to and fro, dog-like. The motion clears his vision in more ways than one, letting him really see the gatehouse's by-now familiar interior, instead of only her. ]
Alright, alright, [ he breathes out, not dismissively, just getting his shit together. Cooperating willingly if a bit sluggishly with his jacket's removal. ] But let me start up the woodstove, y-yeah?
[ He lays a hand on her arm, squeezing quick and light as he brushes past. Wool like a sodden rag, and even before he kneels at the opposite wall she's receiving a sharp-eyed backward glance. In the overhead lighting his face is especially eastern European-pale, still red in the cheeks, but whitened everywhere else. ]
You too, Jesus. It got us good. Keep any extra shirts down here? Blankets?
[ Mr. Proofroc gets a gold star for this, at least: there's a neat stack of logs readied by the stove. Fet shovels them in, working steadily to light the fire while his fingers are still pliable. ]
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his inquiry gets a wild shrug out of marta, her hands flaring out in a gesture of helplessness. ]
I've been down here twice, [ comes her helpful answer, wrenched out through gritted teeth in an attempt to quiet them.
without fet in front of her to wrest her fingers on she starts shedding her own layers, mind now kicking into a more practical overdrive thanks to his insistence. first goes that useless coat, plopping down onto the ground to meet his jacket. it'd grown ten times heavier soaked and she can feel a modicum of relief no longer having it weigh down her shoulders. next goes her cardigan, a knitted mess that only adds to the water quickly puddling at her feet. she's left in just a longsleeve and her jeans, but instead of working those off she turns on her heel and wrenches the utility closet open, hoping for something, anything they can change into.
it's as fruitful as you'd expect. save for what looks like a single garden glove the rest of the closet is filled with tools and other innocuous items that more showcase mr. proofroc's hidden hoarding tendencies than anything actually useful.
her remaining clothes have begun to cling to her skin (rather unfortunate she enjoys her cream knits so much), adding to the stiffness of her movements as she abandons the closet and begins to look around the rest of the space. success comes in the form of one single lap blanket (only slightly larger than a typical one) folded up neatly on proofroc's chair. she holds it up in her hands, the sinking realization looking all the more haggard on her own paling countenance.
slowly she turns back to fet, her victory very quickly overrun by the realization they'll both have to be naked. very very soon. ]
This... is all I could find.
[ outside, thunder finally booms like a toll bell, shaking the little gatehouse they've sought shelter in. ]
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One look over his shoulder illustrates exactly how fruitless Marta's search has proved, and he winces, not in consternation but sympathy. He certainly hadn't expected her to procure a miracle from Mr. Proofroc's domain. And any blame for the gatehouse's sorry lack of preparedness should rest most squarely on himself. He'd been the one fiddling around in here all morning, knowing the forecast, just figuring he'd wing it and be fine. An acceptable bet to hedge, when it's only his own stupid ass on the line.
But a certain heiress coming down to check on him shouldn't have fallen outside the realm of calculation. Fet still doesn't divert energy to comment on it β doesn't even mutter in apology, self-imprecation or regret β but he files it away, in a big mental ledger marked Shit Can't Happen Again. ]
That'll work, [ he nods at the measly scrap of blanket. Exactly like he wasn't just wishing for good Russian furs, a whole heaping pile to cover her in. ] Take off the rest of your stuff, wrap up in that. Then come here, here to the stove.
[ And at that he turns his back to her. Pretty fucking firmly, for a man whose trapezius is on the verge of spasming like a whipped horse's. Through deep breaths he tries to ride out the worst of the shivers, stripping off his shirt, and his belt which flicks a spray of droplets hissing onto the stove. ]
Don't f-feel weird about it, okay? Just like a bathhouse, minus the steam. [ There's an effort to put humor in his voice, casting it back without looking around (teeth clacking together on the bathhouse, probably altering the delivery). His boots kicked off, his jeans wriggled out of like some shapeshifting creature's waterlogged pelt. ]
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she should have turned around then, gone back to her own business and heed his advice. but as always he moves so much faster than her (always alarmingly so considering how much bigger, heavier he is) and before she knows it she's staring at a very broad, very naked back. one that really has no business feeling as scandalous as it does to be viewing in its bare entirety. her mouth falls open, surely to issue an apology, but she finds none but silence on her tongue. it's only once she hears the clink of his belt buckle that she realizes she's staring, prompting her to finally turn back around.
blanket dropped back down she refocuses her attention on stripping off the last few layers of wet clothing, all while trying to convince herself she hadn't just been tracing sharp lines of muscle with her eyes. she's being ridiculous. she's a nurse, a medical professional. she's seen and worked with the naked human body plenty of times. and this? this could well be a matter of life and death. it will only be weird if she makes it weird. get your shit together, cabrera.
she's just finished kicking off her jeans and toeing off her shoes and socks when something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. feeling her heart leap in her chest, marta hurries over to the corner of the room, finding a small but neat pile ofβ ]
Rags!
[ she straightens up, feeling a surge of triumph quell what would have been another bone-clacking shiver. in her hands are three rags, stained but clean, apparently used clearing off tree gunk from the cameras. they're a touch bigger than handtowels and still not much but β they're something. ]
You can use these to - to dry off or - or cover up or...
[ something. her voice trails off, realizing something.
did she just call his attention while she's only wearing a pair of panties?????????? ]
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[ when she comes to, the world is slow to tilt back on its axis. aware, first, of the throbbing at the crown of her head, and then the blurriness of her vision as she blinks open one eye, then the other. what she sees first, like pulling herself to the surface of churning waters with weight-laden limbs: a section of a plush persian rug she knows to be the one in harlan's office because of its pattern... then next she notices the four sets of feet standing before her.
her first mistake: the low sound of confusion and inquiry that works its way out of her throat, sounding out before her memories can properly catch up to her and warn her β they come to her in flashes: a midnight cup of tea, a light left on down the hall, a scuffle of feet and snickers and then a sharp pain exploding behind her head β but by then it's too late, by then she's been heard.
none of the feet move, but her head is pulled back by the hair anyway (that's right, her mind sluggishly supplies, there were five), neck forced at an awkward angle as the rest of her body still works on catching up to her consciousness. she sucks in a deep breath, takes quick stock of herselfβ
legs tucked under her, on her knees but unbound. arms folded back behind her and held together by the wrists, something thin and strong, ziptie? a cloth gag wrenching her jaw apart, pressing against her tongue. that persistent throbbing at her head. a concussion?
βone of them is speaking.
All this money and you didn't even think to buff up your security? You're pretty much asking for it, aren't you?
they laugh.
things start to piece together a bit more coherently then. marta remembers waking up that evening, plagued by another stress-induced nightmare that left her unable to drift back to sleep like she'd liked. she'd gotten up, careful to keep her footsteps light so as not to disturb fet who was surely sound asleep down the hall, and walked herself to the kitchen to try and make herself some chamomile tea. she hadn't even gotten to put any water in the kettle before she noticed the light streaming in from harlan's office; she even remembers wondering to herself how she managed to forget to shut it off earlier that day as she wandered back in to take care of it...
she blinks the memory away, forcing herself to focus on the people in front of her. all men, from the looks of their build, dressed in dark colors (nice clothing, expensive clothing), ski masks. marta has seen enough police dramas to recognize the intent here, and her stomach churns anxiously, but any attempts to swallow down her fear just result on dry, choked gulps.
the men laugh again.
Shit he never told us you were cute.
Bet he just wanted to keep her for himself.
She's Spanish or something, right? That's hot.
wide, frantic eyes flick from one face to the other, hoping to find even a sliver of sympathy, remorse. when all she sees is keen interest and gleeful malice, she looks towards the door, searching and desperate. she watches, heart dropping like lead into the pit of her gut, as five sets of eyes follow hers. her second mistake.
Ah ah, don't even think about it.
one of the men move quickly to close the door shut and stand guard there while the one behind her tugs her head back further, forcing her back to bow awkwardly.
Get her up on the chair, hurry. Soon as we get these pictures we can get outta here. This place gives me the creeps.
What did we agree on? Just her underwear?
Nah, everyone posts up in their underwear now. It's gotta be the full monty.
she's pulled up to her feet, knees buckling from the surprise of it, but before she can even crumple she's being dragged to the chair centered right in front of the thousand knives display. they get three steps and marta knows β knowing the layout of this office like the back of her hand β that her only chance is now. wrenching herself out of the man's hold she half-lunges, half-stumbles into a tall porcelain vase, sending it and herself crashing to the floor.
loudly.
Clumsy bitch! ]
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Still, instead of flopping right back down he sits there, listening. He's aware that she succumbs to insomnia even later and more frequently than him. What fixes him upright then isn't the urge to run out and check on her, but a pang of commiseration β and something sweeter than a pang, if bitter-leaning, that runs through his veins. At the thought of her moving around in the night, close enough it'd only be so many bounds without these walls between them: alone, but also not.
(And to further lessen the not, Christ. But the stumbling blocks to that will follow him into dreams.)
Then the timbre of a man's voice filters into his room, wordless, well-muffled, but instinctually recognizable. And between one moment and the next all that languid wistful longing shit is gone. Crudely severed, a trap-torn rat's tail falling to the floor. Because he knows it's something off, something ugly. If Marta had informed him earlier she'd be entertaining a pack of publishing house shareholders all night, he'd still just fucking know.
Fet's pretty light on his feet, slipping out of bed and into the hall. Helps that he's in socks and sweats, though for someone his size he's never been a heavy-treader (unless he's playing it up to needle some prim customer, stumping around in his work boots like the oaf they expect). But he's not even trying to Elmer Fudd it, 'cause in his mind ugly doesn't equal intruder. His first thought's that one of the old man's jackal pups came slinking around, Marta allowed them in for a late night audience β why, he can't imagine, but she's gotta have her reasons. And if it's sketchy of him not to announce he's about to stick his nose in, intrude on whatever vitriol they're spewing... well, buddy, get ready for a snootful.
No sooner has he identified the voice's location as that sprawling office with the knives than two things happen. Fet realizes there are voices, plural; and actual speech begins to emerge, competing with sources, yet inescapably clear.
βSO LOUD, for fuck's sake! What if someoneβ
βdid our homework, alright? Nobody's around for a couple hours, so chill.
She's gonna flip out again, look at herβ
Half a second into understanding, his brain runs it all down. At least three of them, maybe more from the way the sounds bounce around. No Glock in the truck (CCW license doesn't apply interstate, which hasn't always stopped him, but he's behaved himself lately), no chance of his going that far anyway. What's recollected of the room's layout springs up in 3D, exit points, obstacles, potential weapons. Not that he's going in empty-handed. From the hallway he selects the closest sturdy object that'll give him both reach and repeat hits: a brass knob walking cane, as it happens. (Fet doesn't know that, just spots a stand full of antique-looking sticks with metal bits and thinks, okay).
Closer to the shut door he slides, back to the wall. Once through he'll have an instant to mark them, how many and what they might be carrying, then it's gone. Outnumbered like this, best bet's to do as much damage as you can, quick as you can. A blunt instrument tactic, maybe, but still a strategy, and he's used it to good effect before.
You guys are the ones tweaking! Just strip her, get it done.
Those words cut through. And strategy?
Flies out the goddamn grand windows.
He kicks the door in. Feels it connect with somebody's spine and blasts through the recoil, freight-train style. The door-guarder's still hurtling to the floor as Fet leaps the first bearskin trip hazard. Figures whirling through his sight
(the flash of four shocked pairs of mask-bared eyes, chair under the corona of blades, Marta a blur of dark-hair-blanched-face low to the carpet with one guy looming above)
before he barrels head-on, head-down. Using his forearms like a battering ram as he body slams the chaise lounge, and the coffee table right behind. Sending a plow load of heirloom furniture straight into the knees of the two men on his far side.
He doesn't exactly pause to see how they make out. Off the apex of his own momentum he lunges for the guy nearest Marta. Gonna have to be more of a lunge-fall, 'cause he's going way too fast, but it gets him closer and that's fine. Can't wield the stick the way he'd wanted, no room and no time, so as he skids over the rug he just short-jabs the bronze head up into a collarbone. And a short-jab from him's still got some weight behind it; so when he senses more than hears the flesh-swaddled crack of bone, it's exactly the result he'd expected.
Takes the dude a sec, finding enough air for a garbled howl. But once he finds it it's like they all do, and the shouting pummels his ears from every side. That's a gentle precursor, though, to the fists of the one he'd missed. That fourth fucking guy, falling on Fet's fresh-sprawled form with all proper vengeance. ]
on this day we give thanks for fet going absolutely FERAL π
but no harm befalls her; instead the man holding her down is shoved away, broken from the sounds of things, punctuated by a milk-curdling howl marta knows she'll still hear for nights to come. she had seen a flash of pale skin and ink β vasiliy, he'd come after all! β and instinct finally kicks in, tells her to move.
she scrambles aside, away, tries to get up to her feet despite being so disoriented from the fray. by the time she finally twists around to get a better look at what's happening, the fifth man descends upon fet, fists wailing on unprotected skin. she screams but the sound is muffled behind her gag, soon swallowed up by the frantic shouts from the other men who've managed to recollect themselves.
What the fuckβ?!
I told you, I fuckin' told you I heard somethin'β
Shut up and hold him down, he's getting up again!
marta watches in horror as the three other men move to help the fifth, gathering up weapons from around the room along the way. she shouts again, but her feet carry her there faster, throwing her whole weight onto the one closest just as he raises the iron firepoker in his hands.
Shit, do something about her! ]
it's tradition now forever
The cane gets knocked from his grip, so he opens both arms to the guy's fists. Throws them around the striking fore like it's been delivering little love bites. Grappling cozy and tight till the guy is forced to roll, and Fet pins him with his weight β angling back for a punch till somebody grabs at his right hand
(Marta's gagged scream piercing the din, painfully firing his veins, an injection of speed overamped)
so it seems easier to just bash his skull into the dude's face. Driving down with the crown of his head, staving in the nose under the mask, gouging his own skin on the guy's stupid teeth bared in his stupid yelling mouth; though after this the yelling cuts off real quick.
Fet hurls himself upward, wheeling in place. Caned fucker's still crouched among vase fragments (more mourning the shards of his clavicle) and Mr. Rearranged Septum shows no signs of bouncing back into the ring. Which leaves three men, the one he'd flattened via that dramatic entrance having regained his feet. Two of them already making swipes at him, but slowed by the third's predicament
βdo something about her!
Marta falling to the floor as that guy stumbles under her weight. Through Fet's sight blazes a glimpse of her bound wrists, rawed flesh, zip-ties dug in. And though of course he should go for the two closest men β bowl them over like a wrecking ball, then worry about clean-up β he crosses the space to the third in a few broad leaps. Brings his knee up into the other man's chest, where he's clutched the iron poker's bar mid-stagger; which on Fet's end does not fucking tickle. But it has the advantage of knocking the wind out of the guy, indisputably.
He's swinging the leg back around, trying to plant himself between remaining upright dudes and Marta, when the last two tackle. One around the waist, like some overeager kid glomping a Chewbacca cosplayer (it's almost kinda cute). And the second by way of a lamp stand javelined straight into Fet's ribs (interestingly improvisatory, but cute? Nah). ]
soon to be followed by mistletoe smooches
—though, is that really accurate? while there's no denying the rage fueling his actions here (and it has to be rage, or at least something adjacent; what else can power the blows to land like they do?) to call it unrestrained seems misleading. there's almost something eerie in the way these movements feel controlled, thought out. a rage not so much blind as it is tunnel-visioned. focused.
it is, in many ways, a far more frightening thing to consider.—
she rolls back onto her knees seconds later than she means to, missing the last two intruders' approach. by the time she can look, the three have become one indistinguishable blob of dark fabric and pale skin. she hears a shout, sees a jab, hears a grunt and a scream (wait, that's her own)— a bruise blossoms near instantly on skin once clear and marta's legs feel like jelly, refusing to work with her in her bid to get back up, do something, move. ]
u and me giving hallmark a run for their money
So as the stand jams and scrapes across his own flesh he grabs ahold, keeps ahold. Like the guy on the other end, who threw his considerable weight (whatever else these douchebags are they're not conveniently scrawny) behind the thrust; and who's not prepared to switch gears all that quick. Which means when Fet lets his legs buckle, toppling like a felled tree, that guy β and his buddy giving out free hugs β comes along for the timber.
It's risky, falling down again like this. But if he's not in Hail Mary territory his fighting intuition ain't so great. (Riskier still, and not a little ironic, that he doesn't spot Marta first. The very figure he's trying to protect becomes the one he can't focus on. But this is how it goes in a scrum; at some point it's just crushable bodies, and the buried hope that anything not has gotten well off the field.)
Then he's on the carpet, and if he moved kinda crazily before, now it's like playing a game of Twister with a Viking berserker. His whole frame lashes out, the full-body muscular strikes of an animal incensed, heedless of personal injury in the quest to inflict maximum harm. Crashing into furniture, shelves, more knocked-down knick knacks than you can shake a just-rolled-across-that-goddamn-walking-stick at β
(from the rooms' corners a blur of dark clothes, but they're jerking back, no Marta-shape among them; and there's a whole bunch of noise he can't discern but which basically amounts to FUCK THISβ)
Lamp Lover takes a hefty elbow to the groin, crumples away like a tossed rag; gets a chair kicked into his ass for good measure, as Fet flings his limbs around like the chains on a dual flail. His waist-cuddler's dislodged, but the guy gains enough space to scramble halfway up, fumbling from his pocket a can of pepper spray: no joke, though later Fet'll find it hilarious. Right now he just hammer-swings at the offending hand, clutching some hard object careened into on the floor (it's a gargoyle statue, but he doesn't even see it). The pepper spray spins through the air, the guy looses a snared-rabbit screech; and Fet follows it to the source, maddened yet homed in as the neck-snapping beast too long thwarted.
His own blood's wet and warm in his eye when he brings down his fist, getting in that solid punch at last. But it feels so good, so fucking finally, he does it again, and again. ]
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days from now, during the quiet parts of the night when the caffeine has left her system and insomnia has kicked in, she'll no doubt spend hours turning these handful of moments over in her mind. constantly replaying and wondering what she could have done differently. how she could have helped.
whether intentionally or not, the men wind up taking the fight away from her, so that even as she stays frozen in her spot, she is out of reach from all the destruction. but the downside to not being a participant is you're left as the audience, stuck watching bodies crash and fumble and fists fly like she's got her own private macabre show.
she's a nurse. blood doesn't bother her β and after seeing harlan do what he did, blood has no right to bother her ever again β and yet there's something to be said about seeing it like this, as a direct result of violence. about seeing it paint the faces and figures of the people she cares about.
she flinches with every landed blow. feels her stomach churn every time the masked man warbles in pain, throws his hands up in an attempt to make fet stop, only for those hands to be shoved away. she hears more than sees the rest of the men pick themselves up and stagger-run right out of the room, back into their perfectly polished bentleys, leaving behind their own to show there's truly no honor among thieves.
the warbling stops. only low moans now. a pathetic sound, one that shouldn't make marta feel as conflicted as she does. but it finally gets her to move. finally gets her back on her feet. one step, two steps. three and then she's right there, right behind them, close enough she can lean forward, press her forehead to the inked eagle on fet's back.
she draws in a shaky breath, realizes belatedly that her gag had fallen off in the scuffle. when she speaks, her voice sounds so very far away. ]
Vas... it's okay now. I'm okay.
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But he hasn't needed them here. Whether or not that's more to do with the situation's severity β because those briefly overheard words had told him exactly how bad shit could be, because despite the frenzy and focus and subconscious do-what-I'm-built-for thrill he's never once forgotten it β the end result is this. He's voiceless, close-lipped as a hushed parishioner. Even as his blood sings with the right of it, pulping this guy for what he
(for what they, all those fuckers, past-present-future, any and every last one of them)
had done, and tried to do.
Then, between one whimper from the mask-coated mess under his hands and the next, there's that bird's-wing pressure at his back. His bare skin doesn't so much as quake with a stifled flinch. He knows, accepts her nearness though every other grazing in the last two minutes had him viciously rounding, before she's uttered a word. (Her voice may ring distant in her own ears, but in his it's crystal clear.)
The readiness in his right arm drains away. Until he drops it, at the same time straightening, getting his feet properly under him once more. As he turns to face Marta he's reaching for her too, palms skimming her shoulders; feeling the twist in them from her back-bound wrists. The glance he casts over her is the same as his touch, confirming where she's hurt, and where she's all right, with a leashed kind of desperateness. ]
Okay. [ Fet's syllables fall strangely in the wrecked room, newly emptied of four other bodies. He peers into each corner, listens to the sudden quiet in the hall and outside; checks the beaten figure still lying supine at their feet. Heat ramps through his flesh in every battered place, not truly conquered yet by soreness, though it's calculating arrival times. But he looks back at her, and it's β ]
Okay, [ he echoes again, softly. ]
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she's still as he looks her over, under the passing of those large, bloody hands. it's funny; she thought for a second there she might fear him, or at the very least flinch under the weight of those hands after seeing for herself what violence and harm they can do β and yet she feels a strange sort of calmness settle over her, like she were comforted to know he'd done all that for her... and sorrow that he'd had to.
she assesses him too. she can't help but, not after all her years of schooling and working, and certainly not after all the worry that'd manifested like a knot in her throat. with one lamp down (a lamp. jammed into his ribs!) there isn't a lot of light left to look him over completely, but her eyes are still keen to make out the most obvious issues. she tries and fails not to feel her heart wrench with every bruise and every cut, wishing desperately she could tell which blood was his and which wasn't... feeling terrible that she wishes it were more of the latter.
(and, somehow simultaneously, she runs her own self-assessment; save for the strain on her shoulders and the rawing around her wrists, she can sense a small cut beside her brow, trailing blood down the side of her face, likely from when she'd crashed into that vase. all of that, a mere papercut in comparison. it doesn't feel fair that she wind up so relatively unscathed, when she is at the very center of it.) ]
I'mβ
[ another apology (she's had so many for him), choked around the stifled sound of a sob. her throat closes, her eyes water, till all she can do is shake her head from the wrongness of it all. she tilts under his hands, leans forward again until she's in the circle of his arms, face to chest, head to heart. ]
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[ After the big soiree Fet figured he and Marta'd be kinda tuckered out. Not exactly primed for a long ride back to the Thrombey estate. So he drives them both to a little off-the-beaten-path bed and breakfast, where he'd booked separate rooms for the night. Truthfully he couldn't give two shits about the quaintness of the place. But given Marta's unfortunate notoriety in the area, it seemed like something off-brand was the best bet for their stay.
No sooner do they pull into the lot than he starts having second thoughts. The place is really little, like less "bed and breakfast" than "shack and shit-on-a-shingle." There are barely any lights on, and inside the lobby seems abandoned β despite the owner's assurances that an after-midnight checkin would be no issue at all β dinger on the counter failing to summon anyone, no matter how many times Fet freakin' dings.
It's a ghosttown, albeit one festooned like the specter of Christmases crustily past. The whole downstairs is strung with artificial garlands and wreaths, their plasticky greens faded to pukey chartreuse, cobwebs nestling in the leaves. A giant, inappropriately creepy Santa doll looms in one corner; Fet suspects it's one of those motion-activated obscenities that will scream HO HO HO the second you stray too close. And it smells like someone threw up musty peppermint all over a Yankee candle. ]
Welp. Fitting end to the evening, right?
[ He starts to turn to where Marta waits, sheepish as a schoolboy in his shirt sleeves (somewhere back at the ballroom he'd lost his suit jacket). But he forgets about the goddamn dusty decorations, hanging low from the rafters like booby traps for Big n' Tall; and he smacks face-first into a white-berried sprig. ]
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truthfully, she finds the little bed-and-breakfast rather cute. a molotov cocktail of kitschy and eerie and seasonally-appropriate that would have been right up harlan's alley. she could practically see the man whipping out his little moleskin for notes.
it helps, too, that's she's worked up a lovely little buzz by now, putting a seemingly permanent half-smile on her lips, and a warmth to her skin where that slip of a dress of hers would have otherwise left her quite chilly. she doesn't notice fet's disappointment over their situation, but she definitely notices when he walks right into foliage in front of her. ]
Vas! [ she's concerned, of course she's concerned, don't let the sudden bubble of laughter her words are tripping over fool you into thinking otherwise. ] Are you okay? Let me seeβ
[ fake or not, those little branches looked pretty formidable, especially if one were to get anywhere near an eye. her heels sadly don't provide her much more height than she's usually got, not with how much taller he is to begin with, so she's still left having to lean up while coaxing him to look down, because the last thing this detour into a stephen king novel needs is a gouged eye or accidental poisoning. ]
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I'm fine, I'm fineβ [ Leaning down for her anyway, because he knows she won't be satisfied till she checks for herself. Taking the hand she's reached up toward his face, scooping her slender fingers atop his with the same ease he'd shown on the dance floor.
And it had been easy, hadn't it? Easy like any good time with a friend. They'd danced and drank (well, Marta had; with his driving he'd have made sure nothing put a dent, even had stronger than champagne been on offer); they'd weathered the weirdness and trumped the Thrombeys, far as Fet's concerned. Because they'd enjoyed themselves, in spite of it all. They'd laughed, she'd laughed. And if sometimes the warmth of her bare back slid into the cup of his palm just so, so what?
He hadn't let it get to him, not the way he'd worried about somewhere mostly buried down deep. He'd proven to himself he can be around her, without making shit weirder for her. So that on top of everything else, and despite current circumstances, the night feels safe. ]
Friggin' mistletoe, [ he mutters through the hitch of laughter. Blinking the last of the dust from his eyes. Lips bowing wide in that dumb grin he gets, like he's one instant away from guffawing. Like they're two meathead buds at a bar and somebody's roaring KISS! KISS! KISS! and it's just hilarious, 'cause it's so stupidly predictable, and also never gonna happen.
But he looks down into her face, still flushed from the party and the heat of the car. Hair mussed in a way that's not mussed so much as temptingly disarranged; eyes flashing flecks of green like a taunt to the shade of her dress beneath. That goddamn dress, the one he's been trying not to stare at all nightβ
And Fet's gaze falls to her mouth. Stays there, natural as breathing. ]
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Your pride's probably taken the worst of it, but I don't think you can sue for that.
[ by now, the closeness is a familiar one. this close, they've laughed, they've cried (alright it was mostly her), but they've run a pretty range of emotions huddled together like this, and yet somehow this moment still finds a way to be novel. maybe it's the inn. maybe it's dress. maybe it's the bubbly still warming her up, but not nearly as warm as the feel of his hands on her skin, of his breath mingling with her own.
maybe it's the way she catches him look at her sometimes, the way she's looking at him too. the way he's looking at her now like she wants him to.
honestly, it would be a very stupid thing to do. ]
It's tradition, right?
[ but he's still got his head lowered so close, and her hands are still cupping his cheeks like she means to steal his smile away, and sometimes stupid doesn't necessarily mean wrong. she's leaning up before she can second-guess herself anyway.
it's fine. it's fine. what's a little kiss between friends? ]
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Then she says it. It's tradition, right? Like something out of those Hallmark movies he loves to bust on. Only from Marta is seems reasonable and yeah, right. Like fuckin'-A it's a tradition, it's a fun one and they can share it and snort-laugh about it after just the same. He got through all the rest. He can get through a single kiss between friends.
Yet as she leans up he drops his eyes all the way to floor. Bashful like some towering virgin fresh-picked for spin the bottle. The same degree of self-consciousness, half-amused and half-stricken, all bunched in his mouth still smiling, so with that first brush she'll feel its awkward shape.
But the press of her lips swiftly bleeds him of tension. One moment Vasiliy's hands are hanging stiff, a damned gangly marionette with cut strings; the next they're lifting to skim her shoulders. Tracing her skin precisely, as much by mind's eye as through touch alone. (For all the times tonight he'd looked on her arms: their long elegant lines, their naked contours.) ]
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to be clear, the mistake isn't that she's kissed him; it's that she's only kissed him now, under the silliest of guises. that their first will always be because of this, some silly sprig of flora and a tradition no one's even around to expect them to uphold. that the first time she melts into his arms and his lips hadn't been because they'd both been aching for it, or that the moment was just right. surely it was deserving of more than what it became?
but what's done is done, and it isn't like marta's stopping herself. nor is she holding back. a mistake though it may be, but a chance it is as well, and it's one she is not about to let slip. bolstered by the champagne literally loosening her lips, marta leans further into the kiss the instant she feels him acquiesce, slipping her hands into the curl of his hair, gripping firm. her heels can only take her so far, but she rises as high as she can go, fitting herself into the space his body makes for her like she doesn't mean to part again. for that moment she sheds away the uncertainties that had held her back before and instead she is lips, teeth, tongue.
one thing's for certain β it's definitely not a kiss between friends. ]