[ The second she elbows him he swings his glance around, all innocent incredulity. ]
You don't know the Voyage of the Mimi? Well! Allow me to enlighten you.
I hadn't been in the States very long when they made us watch that shit at school. Some kinda sciencey video series, I think β didn't take a lot away from it, other than kid-Ben Affleck's dedication to his craft. That, and the hypothermia scene.
[ In their cramped corner of the gatehouse Fet's voice troops on, keeping up a steady resonance despite rain-fall and thunder-roll. It's nowhere near as punchy as it can get; he's speaking quite slowly, compared to his usual, still contending with chilled lips (and a not entirely unpleasant sensation of them stinging while they reheat, as though nipped by good vodka). But none of that seems to hinder his words' flow. ]
See, this guy fell into a river or somethin', and they dragged him out all blue. And the head sciencey lady said the only way he'd make it was for all these other dudes to strip down, sandwich him between their naked bodies.
[ Looking down at her he feels more than sees the blanket slip, just a little. Spilling wet locks of Marta's hair over her neck, and his arm where it anchors the canopy. With only the lightest motions he nudges the fabric back into place, his fingers not even grazing her nape. ]
Now I'd just come from Kiev, you know? Very tough kid, I was. Took bath in icewater every morning before breakfast. And here these Americans say to me, if you are cold, you get naked with other guys! You make naked man sandwich.
[ His accent has been getting progressively more Russian, cartoonishly so. Wiped clean of every trace of Brooklyn. Till by that last statement he sounds straight-up like Boris Badenov from Rocky and Bullwinkle, which carries through to the finish: ]
I tell Americans, no way! In Soviet Russia, naked man sandwich make you.
[ by the time he tells his story, marta realizes her desire to hear it is no longer fueled by just her curiosity, but by the sudden need to see him look so pleased to be telling it. he's remarkably animated for a man hunkered down to a fourth of his usual side, whose lips still bear traces of the cold nipping at them. and as his story unfolds in the most vivid way, marta finds her expression opening up just as much.
(suddenly, she has a recollection; once, walt had approved harlan about another new venture β audiobooks. harlan wasn't opposed to it, figuring it would give his novels a little more reach, but marta personally never understood the draw for it, preferring to read her books at her own pace, with her own idea of what each character's voice would sound like.
listening to fet weave his tale, she thinks she's finally starting to get it. that she wouldn't mind curling up in another fireplace, with another blanket, listening to his deep, rumbly voice take her far, far away and put her to ease.)
and by the time he gets to his punchline, he will have seen for all his efforts marta suddenly burst into a stifled laugh, choked on only because she hadn't meant to practically spit it out like she had. is it the joke itself or the ridiculousness of his exaggerated accent? or just the mere fact he looks so pleased with himself to have made it? whatever the reason, marta's shoulders shudder with each huff of laughter, face ducked into the fold of her arms until she's able to get a word out. ]
You've been waiting to make that joke.
[ it's accusatory, for sure, but so, so fond and made all the lighter by the linger laughter in her tone. she shakes her head at him, and beneath the blanket her elbow finds its way to his side again, another jab for good measure. ]
Should I stop saving you hot water for your showers then? I'm more than happy to have longer ones.
[ The thing is, Fet knows his sense of humor is dumb as shit. It's dumb when he's enacting it for his own reasons, it's dumb when he's hamming it up for someone else; and even in the latter case he's really not fussed if the someone fails to actually enjoy the joke. He just doesn't ever view his brand of silliness, when it's on offer, as wasted, no matter how pointless the performance might appear.
But Marta laughs β which he'd wanted, of course; of course it's not the same as making Tom and Jerry references while some customer's overfed cat can't be assed to get after a mouse β and it goes way beyond the useful release of energy. Because it feels so goddamn good. Not despite their situation's discomfort, but in conjunction with it, almost. Like how his drying hair wouldn't prickle so pleasantly in the heat, if it hadn't been so icy before. Or like the buzz of alcohol tingling warmer, deeper after the bite: not a bad metaphor for what's washing over him at present, in fact.
Plus the way she laughs... Christ, it's a big plus. Unfiltered and a little ungainly, how she tries to rein it in a second later. And he can tell it's not 'cause she's seriously bothered about him seeing it, it's just something fun to do. She turns away, half-smothers her giggling breaths, and he can picture her pulling the same move relaxed on the couch. Play-hiding her face, even though she's shown the exact sweet slope of her neck, all bared and arched back β
And Fet just hurls that train of thought away, scoops it up and flings it over the sidelines, straight nopes it out of bounds. ]
You got me, yeah, [ he says, in what's (fucking hopefully) a normal voice. ] Saved it up for a rainy day.
[ BA-DUM-DUM-CHING.
Then her elbow nudges him again, and his cheeks do something on Pillsbury Doughboy levels of idiotic grinniness. ]
Nyet, nyet. Like a good comrade I make sacrifice. 'Sides, you're gonna deserve a nice one after this.
[ it's a self-assuredness that marta admires, to be honest. she can't quite say she's envious of it, because she doesn't think she could ever really be comfortable or enjoy being the center of attention for any reason, but she appreciates the confidence in those who can. especially those who do so at their own expense.
she can't say for sure if admiration is all that's behind the warmth in her smile when she looks at him now, head tilted and cheek pillowed on a forearm crossed neatly over her knees. the crackling fire and pattering rain have combined into a soothing lullaby in the backdrop of the vibrato of his voice, making her eyelids heavy, half-lidded. even her smile curves a little dreamily as she thinks about that β rainy days with fet, cozy and warm, listening to his stories and failing to hold in her laughs.
she hums in agreement of his assessment. ]
We both do.
[ two entire seconds pass before the implication of together poses itself as a possibility to her, and she startles suddenly, but manages to pass it off as a little shiver. she rolls her shoulders, shakes her head, clears her throat. wakes up just a little and focuses. ]
[ Sloshing around somewhere in the sludge of his brain there's another joke β one that ain't about to be dredged up, mind you β concerning the need for a cold shower, after this. But now he is only playing the ham for himself. There's a million things about this shit that negate any instinctual thrill to being, yeah, buck-ass naked with her
(with Marta, who also happens to be pretty, so fucking pretty, ah; but she's been that, she was that the first night he saw her)
like how uncomfortable this is still gonna be when they have to get back up, and put on their disgusting heaps of wet clothes, and make the return trip to the house through the chill and the mud.
And it gives its own kinda kicks, anyway, no doubt about it: just sitting here, seeing her drifting like that, safe and warm(ing).
As she straightens a bit Fet actually drops his head, somehow compressing himself improbably further. Centering his gaze over his knees for a moment or three, so if she needs one to stretch without him seeing more, she can manage it. ]
[ she watches him fold himself impossibly smaller, knowing it must be yet another layer of discomfort on top of all this already is. something grips at her to know he's doing it for her, that since she's known him he has always done things for her; fortunately she doesn't have very long to stop and think about it. ]
I was born here, actually. Both me and my sister. Our father was American-born too. But after he died, our mother didn't really have anyone to help her with us and β she was scared, so.
[ not since that talk of theirs the first day in the thrombey estate did either of them make mention of her mother's undocumented status. even now, with all this money, it is still something that looms threateningly over all of them. all these lawyers and resources at her disposal should be comforting, but some days it feels more daunting than anything else. ]
I was twenty-four when we moved back. I'd just finished nursing school. But my sister, she was just about to start college. We didn't want her to have to start over like I would have had to, so we thought β if we're going to do it, now's the time.
[ there's a wry twist to her lips, a slow shake of her head. funny, the way life goes. ]
I was lucky to have met Harlan. He was... kinder and more generous than I thought anyone could be to a stranger. If it weren't for him, I would have had crazy hours at some hospital and wouldn't be able to help out at home, or my mother would have had to take on two jobs for Alice's tuition or... a lot of things.
[ sure, it wasn't always easy, especially when she had to navigate the landline that is harlan's family, but there had always been more good than bad.
another shake of her head, and when she glances over at fet this time, her eyes take on a familiar glassy sheen. but it isn't sadness there, though her grief has yet to fully leave her. instead, right now, there is a wistfulness that makes her misty, her voice as thick and wet as the raindrops still clinging to her hair.
even now, she still can't fully understand it. ]
All because we were friends. Can you believe that?
[ You'd think just keeping still and listening might be the toughest thing for him, restless lunker that he tends to be, and that's not even factoring in everything else going on right here. But Marta speaks, and it's really no hardship at all. Not because he's pretty damn good at enduring physical discomfort, as a rule; but because in this moment the whole stupid wet loud miserable world shrinks away like a chastened lion. Leaving only her voice, unharried by its roar.
Sure, the stuff she's talking about isn't exactly unicorns and rainbows. It's touching on some heavy shit, of which he's only had a general (if intensely comprehensive) overview so far. He hasn't gone searching after background specifics. So while her mom's status doesn't come as a surprise, hearing her allude even tangentially to the mess they must be dealing with β it's different.
Different as his own parents' story, Fet knows. He's under no illusions that the challenges of their emigration can be easily, tidily compared. But little words like scared and start over? They still ring a bell, alright.
By now he's turned back to keep her face in view. Watching it steadily, though his own isn't static: no longer tossing out caricatures of itself, but emotive, definitely. (The more he's around her the easier it is to let it happen, this default state that's neither theatrical nor stoic, just the raw self in between.)
Then she looks at him with those welling eyes, and more than anything he wants to drop his arm. Just long enough to fumble with his blunt meat-tenderizer of a hand, find hers and give it a squeeze.
Instead he tells her, assuredly: ] Yeah, I can.
[ And tacks on a second later, that certainty still in his voice though it's gone way softer: ]
[ it's only after the fact that marta realizes what she's done. taken an innocently casual moment, once so light and full of laughter, twisted and drowned it into her persistent grief. her expression crumples in regret, like she'd reached in and crushed it herself, and she ducks her head so she can rub at her face, her eyes. tired, most of all, of herself. ]
He was a good man.
[ firm, decisive, a determinedly neat cap to bottle up such messy, unwanted emotions. there was a time and a place for such, and she's so, so over dragging it with her in every single thing she does. ]
You would've liked him.
[ she pauses then, a flicker of another wistful smile on her lips. one good man seems to beget another, and she finds herself looking back at fet. really looking at him, tracing the lines of concern and attention make all the more visible by the golden firelight on his face, by the shadows creeping into every line. ]
He would've liked you.
[ the unspoken i like you hangs there on the tip of her tongue, but rather than speaking it, she tips her head down instead, seeking the cushion of that spot between his shoulder and his chest, resting there. knowing she is not quite there yet to move on, but ready for it anyway. wouldn't harlan be disappointed that she is still so very sad?
she hopes fet won't mind if she uses him as a crutch again. just once more. ]
[ He sees her face fold in on itself, and it smarts. Makes his fingers jerk like they would bruising themselves, trying to catch the pieces of some overburdened cornerstone mid-break. But at the same time he longs to say, just let that shit fall. Let it be messy, let it switch from silly to heavy and back again if she wants, and don't worry about what he'd prefer to fix; don't worry about what anyone else prefers at all.
But that's a tall fucking order, he's aware. So he sits with his own reaction, doesn't push it out into her space. He's quiet while she speaks of Harlan, holding her eyes through the assertion that he'd have liked the old man, and vice versa. Taking it for the earned commendation he knows it is, but not rushing to gush over it either.
As she rests her head against him Fet almost stiffens, if only because he's been so keyed-in to her nearness β on wanting to increase it, though for chrissake she's naked at his side β that having her closer actually comes as a shock. But it's done before he can muster the posture. Then he shifts to make sure she's tucked up, under the blanket and his goddamn bulky arm both, like they ward off hypothermia together every other day.
He's a bit slow to answer Marta's question, though when the word comes it's quick-spoken and wry. ]
Busy.
[ It'd be easy, here, to simply reference more of his usual Got Into Some Shitβ’. To keep it to what most people expect, and what's hardly a lie. But it's also not the whole story, and he's through dumbing that down, at least for tonight. ]
Between all the hijinks, I studied a lot. Had to keep pace with my pops' master plan. Went off track for a while, once we came over here β after Soviet boarding school Brooklyn secondary seemed kinda cakewalky β but I was back in harness, more often'n not.
[ back in harness. it's an idiom marta's only familiar with because the thrombeys, workaholics that they were, would often say it themselves. though in their mouths it had always sounded so self-congratulatory, like a verbal pat on the back or approving nod for even deigning to lift a hand or pull themselves up by the bootstraps. (another favorite of theirs.)
on fet it just sounds matter-of-fact, something marta can empathize with a lot easier. she recalls the first night they met, fet hunkered in that little booth of his, pouring over a battered old library book and scribbling away on his notebook. she remembers that kind of daily grind, even if for him it had been mostly recreational. ]
Did you achieve it? Your dad's master plan?
[ somehow it feels less intimate (though certainly not not intimate) to rest her head upon his chest like this, so close to the beating of his heart. (only slightly elevated, as far as she can tell without any of her instruments with her.) before, when their eyes were meeting, she felt a little too open, a little too raw. not that she thought he would use it against her, but simply because she did not want to burden him with what he might see there. ]
[ He could snort and scoff. By scraping rat shit outta cellars 'stead of designing the whole building? Yeah, not so much. Or any other variant which pillories both his father's ideals and himself for having bought into them. (Even for referencing it now, those attempts at being the studious son. Like he doesn't loathe the thought of wanting her to know that part of his past; like on some not-so-subterranean level he isn't good enough without it.)
But he only shakes his head, chin wagging slowly over the crown of hers. ]
Nah. Got to a point, I just went off, did my own thing.
[ Truthfully he's not checking the flood of bitterness, because at the moment Fet really doesn't feel any. Which is weird, 'cause he recognizes how unguarded he is: in his own way as grateful as Marta for the precluding of eye contact, of seeing her face and fore answer his every word. Though he's picturing it anyway, her mouth's bow, her (faintly, now its color's coming back) freckle-spangled nose. Hands so slender and deft, even when they're kneading her own cheeks like potter's clay.
Fet's thumb slips up past the blanket's edge, before he can think better of it. Presses her bare shoulder; not caressing, but warm and lingering, right there. ]
[ marta realizes it makes much more sense for fet to strike out on his own, the moment she even asked the question. so when he confirms as much, she can only nod slightly, the movement a soft nuzzle against his chest. it coincides with the passage of his thumb along the slope of her shoulder, flushing her with a sudden heat that's so distracting, she's glad for the opportunity to speak again.
if only it hadn't cracked the moment she opened her mouth. she has to swallow and clear her throat a few times. ]
Mm. Halfway into my residency.
[ she grins at what is likely an unexpected answer (though it'd be hidden to him; but maybe he feels it against his skin?) but she doesn't take long to explain. ]
My mother was a nurse. My mother's sisters were nurses. My grandmother a ward clerk for her local clinic. I was the oldest of all the grandkids, so it was just understood I would go into medicine. My mother would always tell me I was meant for it because I had "kind eyes." She would have probably been okay if I didn't want to do it, but I didn't really have any big dreams of my own, and the work wasn't too terrible, so.
[ she hadn't minded. unlike her sister, unlike even fet, there isn't much of her that desires for her own thing. she simply wants to be. ]
But then I get out there, and I meet patients, and I get to actually help people... [ she shrugs, shifting up into that swiping thumb. ] I think, I must be pretty lucky. How many people just happen to wind up doing the thing they want to do?
[ He hears her voice give out a little, and it doesn't really throw him; charge through a freezing downpour and then huff in a woodstove's dry heat, it sounds about right. Still, his thumb tightens gently, indicative of the aborted impulse to tip back her body β to look down over it, then into her face, and make sure she's okay.
Instead he just lets the words, when they come, patter against his chest. Soft yet ticklingly vibrative, like the brush of her cheek, her parted lips, right there.
He's actually thought about it a lot, this background she's explaining. Or at least how it must've been such an integral part of her daily being. In the city he's met enough nurses to realize the profession's not something people can easily unsee, once they see it on someone. He's wondered how she felt about it, outside her employment with Harlan. And having the confirmation that she felt good about her job overall only underscores the next question: what's she gonna do now?
But being naturally curious over the future of someone he cares about
(βah, fuck)
isn't the same thing, for Fet, as thinking it's gotta be all figured out. ]
It is lucky. But ain't always some magical thing either, huh? To keep doing what you want, what you're good at. Can't say I don't ever think about how much easier some shit would be... if I'd taken the scholarship to Cornell, gotten some fancy graduate degree.
[ Suddenly he can't resist it: drawing back to seek her eyes. The touch of his thumb becoming his hand entire, as he lightly cups her shoulder, supporting her weight while he looks down. Lips twitching, cheeks threatening to be cheeky. ]
But then, you'd probably never have invited over some rando architect at the Denny's, right?
[ what now? it's a question marta has asked herself for months now. even before the inheritance, with just harlan's passing, the state of her future had been nebulous. some unseen, distant thing she could barely make out past the tears that keep falling, the guilt that throbs between her brows. still now she is in a similar state, only with more money and responsibilities than she knows what to do with, and people breathing down her neck, waiting for her to make decisions and fail.
she knows she will keep working. it's all she's ever known, and she likes it as much as she's good at it. it feels as right to her as breathing, and past that there is the far more practical part of her that doesn't wish to let all those years of schooling languish and go to waste. this money isn't permanent, after all, and if she truly wants to ensure her family's safety and comfort in the future, the obvious answer is to do what she's always done, and that's work hard for it. but the whens and hows and to what capacity... she doesn't know. she can only even begin to guess, at this point.
they problems to continue to ponder over later, though. alone, when she's hunched over paperwork of printed words that blur together and stop making sense, forcing her to turn to translation dictionaries like she hasn't in many, many years. they are not problems to mull over now, curled snug within the arms of a man who, on paper, shouldn't make her feel as comfortable and comforted as she does now. and yet.
so she tries to think of him instead. thinks of fet wandering through prestigious university, arms laden with books, goatee neatly trimmed. it plucks a small smile right out of her lips, one he is suddenly privy to when he tips her back oh so gently. she only tenses for the surprise of it, but more surprising still is how easily she relaxes into the hold no more than a second later.
and if this new position β eyes meeting, neck bared, firelight flickering over the stretch and slope of her chest β feels at all too revealing for her, it's nothing compared to the words she says. ]
It would have just been a little harder to think of an excuse.
[ For all he doesn't expect instant or easy answers from her, he knows Marta ain't the only one with 'figuring out' to do. He's already had to call his boss, stretch out this little work hiatus: which isn't a big deal at present, given how much vacation time Fet racks up every year and rarely uses. But he's not gonna stay away from New York too much longer. That outcome's never once been in question.
And it's funny, because even the stuff that's got him spinning β liking her like he does, wanting to be her friend β
(knowing he'd like more, but nope, friend's a big enough leap as it is, not to mention what they both most need)
it doesn't counter the certainty he's felt almost from the beginning. That she's a good egg, if kinda rattling around lonesome in an emptying carton, sometimes just holding that styrofoam shit together with her bare hands. That however incongruously β what's he in this egg analogy? the sad overfried hash brown, sitting apart from all the rest? the last way-too-crusty strip of bacon? β in certain crucial aspects, she's not unlike him.
So when she says what she says, he doesn't think but why would you want to. Because he understands. ]
I'm glad you did. [ No addition of 'cause that arroz con pollo was bangin', or the bats not so much, I guess. All the impishness-albeit-writ-real-large has vanished from his smile. It's sincere, and unaccountably soft for the breadth it's got: like his grip as he finally gives her a squeeze. Not just from the palm at her shoulder, but his whole arm, bringing her in under his chin brief but tight. ]
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no subject
You don't know the Voyage of the Mimi? Well! Allow me to enlighten you.
I hadn't been in the States very long when they made us watch that shit at school. Some kinda sciencey video series, I think β didn't take a lot away from it, other than kid-Ben Affleck's dedication to his craft. That, and the hypothermia scene.
[ In their cramped corner of the gatehouse Fet's voice troops on, keeping up a steady resonance despite rain-fall and thunder-roll. It's nowhere near as punchy as it can get; he's speaking quite slowly, compared to his usual, still contending with chilled lips (and a not entirely unpleasant sensation of them stinging while they reheat, as though nipped by good vodka). But none of that seems to hinder his words' flow. ]
See, this guy fell into a river or somethin', and they dragged him out all blue. And the head sciencey lady said the only way he'd make it was for all these other dudes to strip down, sandwich him between their naked bodies.
[ Looking down at her he feels more than sees the blanket slip, just a little. Spilling wet locks of Marta's hair over her neck, and his arm where it anchors the canopy. With only the lightest motions he nudges the fabric back into place, his fingers not even grazing her nape. ]
Now I'd just come from Kiev, you know? Very tough kid, I was. Took bath in icewater every morning before breakfast. And here these Americans say to me, if you are cold, you get naked with other guys! You make naked man sandwich.
[ His accent has been getting progressively more Russian, cartoonishly so. Wiped clean of every trace of Brooklyn. Till by that last statement he sounds straight-up like Boris Badenov from Rocky and Bullwinkle, which carries through to the finish: ]
I tell Americans, no way! In Soviet Russia, naked man sandwich make you.
no subject
(suddenly, she has a recollection; once, walt had approved harlan about another new venture β audiobooks. harlan wasn't opposed to it, figuring it would give his novels a little more reach, but marta personally never understood the draw for it, preferring to read her books at her own pace, with her own idea of what each character's voice would sound like.
listening to fet weave his tale, she thinks she's finally starting to get it. that she wouldn't mind curling up in another fireplace, with another blanket, listening to his deep, rumbly voice take her far, far away and put her to ease.)
and by the time he gets to his punchline, he will have seen for all his efforts marta suddenly burst into a stifled laugh, choked on only because she hadn't meant to practically spit it out like she had. is it the joke itself or the ridiculousness of his exaggerated accent? or just the mere fact he looks so pleased with himself to have made it? whatever the reason, marta's shoulders shudder with each huff of laughter, face ducked into the fold of her arms until she's able to get a word out. ]
You've been waiting to make that joke.
[ it's accusatory, for sure, but so, so fond and made all the lighter by the linger laughter in her tone. she shakes her head at him, and beneath the blanket her elbow finds its way to his side again, another jab for good measure. ]
Should I stop saving you hot water for your showers then? I'm more than happy to have longer ones.
no subject
But Marta laughs β which he'd wanted, of course; of course it's not the same as making Tom and Jerry references while some customer's overfed cat can't be assed to get after a mouse β and it goes way beyond the useful release of energy. Because it feels so goddamn good. Not despite their situation's discomfort, but in conjunction with it, almost. Like how his drying hair wouldn't prickle so pleasantly in the heat, if it hadn't been so icy before. Or like the buzz of alcohol tingling warmer, deeper after the bite: not a bad metaphor for what's washing over him at present, in fact.
Plus the way she laughs... Christ, it's a big plus. Unfiltered and a little ungainly, how she tries to rein it in a second later. And he can tell it's not 'cause she's seriously bothered about him seeing it, it's just something fun to do. She turns away, half-smothers her giggling breaths, and he can picture her pulling the same move relaxed on the couch. Play-hiding her face, even though she's shown the exact sweet slope of her neck, all bared and arched back β
And Fet just hurls that train of thought away, scoops it up and flings it over the sidelines, straight nopes it out of bounds. ]
You got me, yeah, [ he says, in what's (fucking hopefully) a normal voice. ] Saved it up for a rainy day.
[ BA-DUM-DUM-CHING.
Then her elbow nudges him again, and his cheeks do something on Pillsbury Doughboy levels of idiotic grinniness. ]
Nyet, nyet. Like a good comrade I make sacrifice. 'Sides, you're gonna deserve a nice one after this.
no subject
she can't say for sure if admiration is all that's behind the warmth in her smile when she looks at him now, head tilted and cheek pillowed on a forearm crossed neatly over her knees. the crackling fire and pattering rain have combined into a soothing lullaby in the backdrop of the vibrato of his voice, making her eyelids heavy, half-lidded. even her smile curves a little dreamily as she thinks about that β rainy days with fet, cozy and warm, listening to his stories and failing to hold in her laughs.
she hums in agreement of his assessment. ]
We both do.
[ two entire seconds pass before the implication of together poses itself as a possibility to her, and she startles suddenly, but manages to pass it off as a little shiver. she rolls her shoulders, shakes her head, clears her throat. wakes up just a little and focuses. ]
So... You moved here early?
no subject
(with Marta, who also happens to be pretty, so fucking pretty, ah; but she's been that, she was that the first night he saw her)
like how uncomfortable this is still gonna be when they have to get back up, and put on their disgusting heaps of wet clothes, and make the return trip to the house through the chill and the mud.
And it gives its own kinda kicks, anyway, no doubt about it: just sitting here, seeing her drifting like that, safe and warm(ing).
As she straightens a bit Fet actually drops his head, somehow compressing himself improbably further. Centering his gaze over his knees for a moment or three, so if she needs one to stretch without him seeing more, she can manage it. ]
When I was nine, maybe ten, yeah.
How 'bout you?
no subject
done things for her; fortunately she doesn't have very long to stop and think about it. ]
I was born here, actually. Both me and my sister. Our father was American-born too. But after he died, our mother didn't really have anyone to help her with us and β she was scared, so.
[ not since that talk of theirs the first day in the thrombey estate did either of them make mention of her mother's undocumented status. even now, with all this money, it is still something that looms threateningly over all of them. all these lawyers and resources at her disposal should be comforting, but some days it feels more daunting than anything else. ]
I was twenty-four when we moved back. I'd just finished nursing school. But my sister, she was just about to start college. We didn't want her to have to start over like I would have had to, so we thought β if we're going to do it, now's the time.
[ there's a wry twist to her lips, a slow shake of her head. funny, the way life goes. ]
I was lucky to have met Harlan. He was... kinder and more generous than I thought anyone could be to a stranger. If it weren't for him, I would have had crazy hours at some hospital and wouldn't be able to help out at home, or my mother would have had to take on two jobs for Alice's tuition or... a lot of things.
[ sure, it wasn't always easy, especially when she had to navigate the landline that is harlan's family, but there had always been more good than bad.
another shake of her head, and when she glances over at fet this time, her eyes take on a familiar glassy sheen. but it isn't sadness there, though her grief has yet to fully leave her. instead, right now, there is a wistfulness that makes her misty, her voice as thick and wet as the raindrops still clinging to her hair.
even now, she still can't fully understand it. ]
All because we were friends. Can you believe that?
no subject
Sure, the stuff she's talking about isn't exactly unicorns and rainbows. It's touching on some heavy shit, of which he's only had a general (if intensely comprehensive) overview so far. He hasn't gone searching after background specifics. So while her mom's status doesn't come as a surprise, hearing her allude even tangentially to the mess they must be dealing with β it's different.
Different as his own parents' story, Fet knows. He's under no illusions that the challenges of their emigration can be easily, tidily compared. But little words like scared and start over? They still ring a bell, alright.
By now he's turned back to keep her face in view. Watching it steadily, though his own isn't static: no longer tossing out caricatures of itself, but emotive, definitely. (The more he's around her the easier it is to let it happen, this default state that's neither theatrical nor stoic, just the raw self in between.)
Then she looks at him with those welling eyes, and more than anything he wants to drop his arm. Just long enough to fumble with his blunt meat-tenderizer of a hand, find hers and give it a squeeze.
Instead he tells her, assuredly: ] Yeah, I can.
[ And tacks on a second later, that certainty still in his voice though it's gone way softer: ]
You've gotta be missin' him all the time, huh.
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He was a good man.
[ firm, decisive, a determinedly neat cap to bottle up such messy, unwanted emotions. there was a time and a place for such, and she's so, so over dragging it with her in every single thing she does. ]
You would've liked him.
[ she pauses then, a flicker of another wistful smile on her lips. one good man seems to beget another, and she finds herself looking back at fet. really looking at him, tracing the lines of concern and attention make all the more visible by the golden firelight on his face, by the shadows creeping into every line. ]
He would've liked you.
[ the unspoken i like you hangs there on the tip of her tongue, but rather than speaking it, she tips her head down instead, seeking the cushion of that spot between his shoulder and his chest, resting there. knowing she is not quite there yet to move on, but ready for it anyway. wouldn't harlan be disappointed that she is still so very sad?
she hopes fet won't mind if she uses him as a crutch again. just once more. ]
What were you like, as a boy?
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But that's a tall fucking order, he's aware. So he sits with his own reaction, doesn't push it out into her space. He's quiet while she speaks of Harlan, holding her eyes through the assertion that he'd have liked the old man, and vice versa. Taking it for the earned commendation he knows it is, but not rushing to gush over it either.
As she rests her head against him Fet almost stiffens, if only because he's been so keyed-in to her nearness β on wanting to increase it, though for chrissake she's naked at his side β that having her closer actually comes as a shock. But it's done before he can muster the posture. Then he shifts to make sure she's tucked up, under the blanket and his goddamn bulky arm both, like they ward off hypothermia together every other day.
He's a bit slow to answer Marta's question, though when the word comes it's quick-spoken and wry. ]
Busy.
[ It'd be easy, here, to simply reference more of his usual Got Into Some Shitβ’. To keep it to what most people expect, and what's hardly a lie. But it's also not the whole story, and he's through dumbing that down, at least for tonight. ]
Between all the hijinks, I studied a lot. Had to keep pace with my pops' master plan. Went off track for a while, once we came over here β after Soviet boarding school Brooklyn secondary seemed kinda cakewalky β but I was back in harness, more often'n not.
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on fet it just sounds matter-of-fact, something marta can empathize with a lot easier. she recalls the first night they met, fet hunkered in that little booth of his, pouring over a battered old library book and scribbling away on his notebook. she remembers that kind of daily grind, even if for him it had been mostly recreational. ]
Did you achieve it? Your dad's master plan?
[ somehow it feels less intimate (though certainly not not intimate) to rest her head upon his chest like this, so close to the beating of his heart. (only slightly elevated, as far as she can tell without any of her instruments with her.) before, when their eyes were meeting, she felt a little too open, a little too raw. not that she thought he would use it against her, but simply because she did not want to burden him with what he might see there. ]
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But he only shakes his head, chin wagging slowly over the crown of hers. ]
Nah. Got to a point, I just went off, did my own thing.
[ Truthfully he's not checking the flood of bitterness, because at the moment Fet really doesn't feel any. Which is weird, 'cause he recognizes how unguarded he is: in his own way as grateful as Marta for the precluding of eye contact, of seeing her face and fore answer his every word. Though he's picturing it anyway, her mouth's bow, her (faintly, now its color's coming back) freckle-spangled nose. Hands so slender and deft, even when they're kneading her own cheeks like potter's clay.
Fet's thumb slips up past the blanket's edge, before he can think better of it. Presses her bare shoulder; not caressing, but warm and lingering, right there. ]
When'd you know you wanted to be a nurse?
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if only it hadn't cracked the moment she opened her mouth. she has to swallow and clear her throat a few times. ]
Mm. Halfway into my residency.
[ she grins at what is likely an unexpected answer (though it'd be hidden to him; but maybe he feels it against his skin?) but she doesn't take long to explain. ]
My mother was a nurse. My mother's sisters were nurses. My grandmother a ward clerk for her local clinic. I was the oldest of all the grandkids, so it was just understood I would go into medicine. My mother would always tell me I was meant for it because I had "kind eyes." She would have probably been okay if I didn't want to do it, but I didn't really have any big dreams of my own, and the work wasn't too terrible, so.
[ she hadn't minded. unlike her sister, unlike even fet, there isn't much of her that desires for her own thing. she simply wants to be. ]
But then I get out there, and I meet patients, and I get to actually help people... [ she shrugs, shifting up into that swiping thumb. ] I think, I must be pretty lucky. How many people just happen to wind up doing the thing they want to do?
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Instead he just lets the words, when they come, patter against his chest. Soft yet ticklingly vibrative, like the brush of her cheek, her parted lips, right there.
He's actually thought about it a lot, this background she's explaining. Or at least how it must've been such an integral part of her daily being. In the city he's met enough nurses to realize the profession's not something people can easily unsee, once they see it on someone. He's wondered how she felt about it, outside her employment with Harlan. And having the confirmation that she felt good about her job overall only underscores the next question: what's she gonna do now?
But being naturally curious over the future of someone he cares about
(βah, fuck)
isn't the same thing, for Fet, as thinking it's gotta be all figured out. ]
It is lucky. But ain't always some magical thing either, huh? To keep doing what you want, what you're good at. Can't say I don't ever think about how much easier some shit would be... if I'd taken the scholarship to Cornell, gotten some fancy graduate degree.
[ Suddenly he can't resist it: drawing back to seek her eyes. The touch of his thumb becoming his hand entire, as he lightly cups her shoulder, supporting her weight while he looks down. Lips twitching, cheeks threatening to be cheeky. ]
But then, you'd probably never have invited over some rando architect at the Denny's, right?
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she knows she will keep working. it's all she's ever known, and she likes it as much as she's good at it. it feels as right to her as breathing, and past that there is the far more practical part of her that doesn't wish to let all those years of schooling languish and go to waste. this money isn't permanent, after all, and if she truly wants to ensure her family's safety and comfort in the future, the obvious answer is to do what she's always done, and that's work hard for it. but the whens and hows and to what capacity... she doesn't know. she can only even begin to guess, at this point.
they problems to continue to ponder over later, though. alone, when she's hunched over paperwork of printed words that blur together and stop making sense, forcing her to turn to translation dictionaries like she hasn't in many, many years. they are not problems to mull over now, curled snug within the arms of a man who, on paper, shouldn't make her feel as comfortable and comforted as she does now. and yet.
so she tries to think of him instead. thinks of fet wandering through prestigious university, arms laden with books, goatee neatly trimmed. it plucks a small smile right out of her lips, one he is suddenly privy to when he tips her back oh so gently. she only tenses for the surprise of it, but more surprising still is how easily she relaxes into the hold no more than a second later.
and if this new position β eyes meeting, neck bared, firelight flickering over the stretch and slope of her chest β feels at all too revealing for her, it's nothing compared to the words she says. ]
It would have just been a little harder to think of an excuse.
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And it's funny, because even the stuff that's got him spinning β liking her like he does, wanting to be her friend β
(knowing he'd like more, but nope, friend's a big enough leap as it is, not to mention what they both most need)
it doesn't counter the certainty he's felt almost from the beginning. That she's a good egg, if kinda rattling around lonesome in an emptying carton, sometimes just holding that styrofoam shit together with her bare hands. That however incongruously β what's he in this egg analogy? the sad overfried hash brown, sitting apart from all the rest? the last way-too-crusty strip of bacon? β in certain crucial aspects, she's not unlike him.
So when she says what she says, he doesn't think but why would you want to. Because he understands. ]
I'm glad you did. [ No addition of 'cause that arroz con pollo was bangin', or the bats not so much, I guess. All the impishness-albeit-writ-real-large has vanished from his smile. It's sincere, and unaccountably soft for the breadth it's got: like his grip as he finally gives her a squeeze. Not just from the palm at her shoulder, but his whole arm, bringing her in under his chin brief but tight. ]