[ 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 — 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
(—ah, 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 — eyes meeting, neck bared, firelight flickering over the stretch and slope of her chest — 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 — liking her like he does, wanting to be her friend —
(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 — 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? — 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
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
(—ah, 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?
no subject
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 — eyes meeting, neck bared, firelight flickering over the stretch and slope of her chest — 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.
no subject
And it's funny, because even the stuff that's got him spinning — liking her like he does, wanting to be her friend —
(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 — 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? — 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. ]