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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) โ
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 โ 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 โ 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. ]
[ 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) โ
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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
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 โ 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.
[ Maybe it's just a unique combination of factors โ the circumstances, the setting, the fact that pine sap seems to have worked its way into his goddamn ears โ 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 โ [ 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 โ
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 โ like, from what?). But he stays in place, like her answering is everything and the literal power of the weather, nothing. ]
Oh, hey โ [ 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 โ
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 โ 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. ]
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 โ
[ 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 โ like that'll do jack, long as it is โ 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. ]
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 โ
[ 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 โ like that'll do jack, long as it is โ 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. ]
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. ]
Edited 2021-11-14 21:18 (UTC)
[ 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 โ if anything the overarching branches just direct gouts of rainwater into their path โ 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. ]
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. ]
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 โ doesn't even mutter in apology, self-imprecation or regret โ 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. ]
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 โ doesn't even mutter in apology, self-imprecation or regret โ 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 ofโ ]
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 โ 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?????????? ]
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 ofโ ]
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 โ 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?????????? ]
[ For his part Fet's also operating around a sense of surrealness. Something he plows past a tad more stubbornly than she, perhaps, but it's very much there. He's aware they're both sensible sorts, that between her no-nonsense nursing know-how and his sewer-pipe pragmatism, they should be able to navigate any awkwardness here, no prob. And if needing to get naked together in this goddamn gatehouse is absurd, like a scene from some half-assed romcom, the unrosy reality of seeing her drenched and shuddering takes precedence; the main drive of his brain clicks into fix-it mode, like keep on truckin', get it done.
(All the ancillary systems cranking out that's Marta behind me Marta who is taking off all her clothes what the actual fuck โ they can just shut up.)
By now the stove's giving off some decent heat, though to a degree that makes it worse, the impulse to succumb and start rattling in his case like a 200+ centimeters pager set on vibrate. Plus he's shuffled closer to the wall, making space for Marta's anticipated approach. So when he hears her exclaim from the room's far corner, that's enough to have Fet half-spinning, half-lurching in place, dismayed that she's still over there. Clad only in wet boxer briefs, probably looking like a Hane's catalogue vomited up a Slavic basketball player.
The nanosecond he gets a gander at her, though, Fet's gaze leaps to the ceiling (least it's not far to go). And stays there, while his body leans back into the wall, evidently striving to become one with the plaster. ]
Okay! Yeah! That's great. [ He manages to flash a thumbs-up, which then morphs into an unfocused beckoning gesture. ]
How 'bout you get in front of the stove? Bring the rags, sure, bring all the rags. Rags'll be great.
(All the ancillary systems cranking out that's Marta behind me Marta who is taking off all her clothes what the actual fuck โ they can just shut up.)
By now the stove's giving off some decent heat, though to a degree that makes it worse, the impulse to succumb and start rattling in his case like a 200+ centimeters pager set on vibrate. Plus he's shuffled closer to the wall, making space for Marta's anticipated approach. So when he hears her exclaim from the room's far corner, that's enough to have Fet half-spinning, half-lurching in place, dismayed that she's still over there. Clad only in wet boxer briefs, probably looking like a Hane's catalogue vomited up a Slavic basketball player.
The nanosecond he gets a gander at her, though, Fet's gaze leaps to the ceiling (least it's not far to go). And stays there, while his body leans back into the wall, evidently striving to become one with the plaster. ]
Okay! Yeah! That's great. [ He manages to flash a thumbs-up, which then morphs into an unfocused beckoning gesture. ]
How 'bout you get in front of the stove? Bring the rags, sure, bring all the rags. Rags'll be great.
[ surreal is a good way of putting it. practically ripped out of one of alice's romance novels, except marta doesn't quite recall there being so much mortification involved. when he speaks, she turns on the balls of her feet, like baring her back is somehow any better, but she nods all the same, gathering what she can and quickly making her way back to retrieve that discarded blanket. by now she can feel the numbness really start to settle in, her lips taking on an unnatural color, and yet there is an unmistakable heat flaring there on her cheeks, embarrassment carrying her through. ]
H-Here, [ she says quietly, barely heard over the crackling of logs and the storm kicking into full gear outside. the rags get placed at fet's feet, where she endeavors to keep her gaze despite the clawing urge to look up, up, where in her periphery she swears she sees the unmistakable signs of ink. it takes all her willpower not to give into temptation, fueled by curiosity and something so base she dares not put a name to it.
instead she finally perches herself in front of the woodstove, drawing her knees up to her chest and finally, finally she pulls that blanket up and around her shoulders. she tries to blink away the droplets still clinging to her lashes, clumping them up, and she is keenly aware of every wet point on her body. her hair being the biggest offender, dripping rivulets down into the blanket, getting that damp sooner than she would have liked. there's nothing she can do about that, though; she can, however, wiggle out of the last piece of clothing she has, and while it offers her some physical relief, her mind is blaring exclamations a mile a minute.
she closes her eyes, forces out a breath to steel herself. reorient. she's being ridiculous. they need to be safe, above all. ]
...I'm going to come closer, [ she finally says, a fair warning. ] We need to increase our body temperature as fast as possible.
[ finally, she dares to look up and watch his face, hoping to catch his eye. hoping he understands what she means, without her having to say any more. ]
H-Here, [ she says quietly, barely heard over the crackling of logs and the storm kicking into full gear outside. the rags get placed at fet's feet, where she endeavors to keep her gaze despite the clawing urge to look up, up, where in her periphery she swears she sees the unmistakable signs of ink. it takes all her willpower not to give into temptation, fueled by curiosity and something so base she dares not put a name to it.
instead she finally perches herself in front of the woodstove, drawing her knees up to her chest and finally, finally she pulls that blanket up and around her shoulders. she tries to blink away the droplets still clinging to her lashes, clumping them up, and she is keenly aware of every wet point on her body. her hair being the biggest offender, dripping rivulets down into the blanket, getting that damp sooner than she would have liked. there's nothing she can do about that, though; she can, however, wiggle out of the last piece of clothing she has, and while it offers her some physical relief, her mind is blaring exclamations a mile a minute.
she closes her eyes, forces out a breath to steel herself. reorient. she's being ridiculous. they need to be safe, above all. ]
...I'm going to come closer, [ she finally says, a fair warning. ] We need to increase our body temperature as fast as possible.
[ finally, she dares to look up and watch his face, hoping to catch his eye. hoping he understands what she means, without her having to say any more. ]
[ So much for thunderless, Fet thinks, feeling as much as hearing the gatehouse reverberate. It's the kind of low thunder that never truly cracks, just peals through every air molecule till it resounds in your bones. And on top of that is the rain's cacophony itself. If there's any real wind behind it he doesn't pick it up, all whistles and moans obliterated by the simple roar of shit-tons of water being unceremoniously dumped. He's waited out his share of downpours, but Christ, he hopes the roof on this place is as solid-if-dated as it looks.
Yet somehow all this is quite secondary to the slide of Marta's bare soles across the floor, the rustle of the cloths she leaves at his feet. One of those rags gets scooped up right quick, and he mumbles his thanks around a faceful, scrubbing at his scalp and cheeks. He isn't half so numb as to be unaware of dank rainwater slicking the entirety of his skin, like an icy film that portends a deeper freeze (if you don't keep the engine running, scrape that shit straight off the hood). Standing there he'd tried to chafe at his own cold flesh a bit, but without something to dry the friction didn't do a whole lot.
Now he keeps his attention studiously (so studiously) on the task at hand. Methodically applying the rag, whisking off as much moisture as he can, first from his torso and then from his limbs. It becomes quickly apparent how piney he remains, his soaking having only served to move the debris around. Under the damp a great swath of his neck's still tacky with sap, which segues nicely into streaks of grit pretty much everywhere else. But at the moment some dirt's not worth dwelling on; and that'll just have to include the weird crumbly pieces of mossy crust (psst Fet it's tree lichen) matted through the hair on his chest. ]
Marta โ [ The rag falls from his hand mid-strike. Throat bobbing roughly as he shivers through a gulp; looking down, finally, and seeing her crouched there, looking up. ]
Let me, okay?
[ Fet lowers himself beside her. Turns away just long enough to tug off his underwear and socks โ with extreme awkwardness, since he's doing it from the floor, jouncing his hips and banging his shins into the fucking wall with triple thwacks โ before sidling right back. He sits with his knees drawn up, like the biggest goddamn kid at storytime; and when his nearest arm stretches out, bough-broad yet tentative as though she were the cradle, it's only shaking a little. ]
C'mere then, come on in close.
Yet somehow all this is quite secondary to the slide of Marta's bare soles across the floor, the rustle of the cloths she leaves at his feet. One of those rags gets scooped up right quick, and he mumbles his thanks around a faceful, scrubbing at his scalp and cheeks. He isn't half so numb as to be unaware of dank rainwater slicking the entirety of his skin, like an icy film that portends a deeper freeze (if you don't keep the engine running, scrape that shit straight off the hood). Standing there he'd tried to chafe at his own cold flesh a bit, but without something to dry the friction didn't do a whole lot.
Now he keeps his attention studiously (so studiously) on the task at hand. Methodically applying the rag, whisking off as much moisture as he can, first from his torso and then from his limbs. It becomes quickly apparent how piney he remains, his soaking having only served to move the debris around. Under the damp a great swath of his neck's still tacky with sap, which segues nicely into streaks of grit pretty much everywhere else. But at the moment some dirt's not worth dwelling on; and that'll just have to include the weird crumbly pieces of mossy crust (psst Fet it's tree lichen) matted through the hair on his chest. ]
Marta โ [ The rag falls from his hand mid-strike. Throat bobbing roughly as he shivers through a gulp; looking down, finally, and seeing her crouched there, looking up. ]
Let me, okay?
[ Fet lowers himself beside her. Turns away just long enough to tug off his underwear and socks โ with extreme awkwardness, since he's doing it from the floor, jouncing his hips and banging his shins into the fucking wall with triple thwacks โ before sidling right back. He sits with his knees drawn up, like the biggest goddamn kid at storytime; and when his nearest arm stretches out, bough-broad yet tentative as though she were the cradle, it's only shaking a little. ]
C'mere then, come on in close.
[ she watches him work so diligently that she feels rather useless just sitting there like she is. taking cue from him she picks up one of the rags he isn't using and does her best to run it through her hair enough times to try and get most of the clinging water off, but her fingers fall prey to the stiffening numbness far quicker than his do and so she is forced to retreat into the little tent of her blanket.
marta. he says her name and it's like the first time she's ever heard it, or something ridiculous like that. gruff and rumbly and just a little strangled, it sends such a visceral pulse through her that she is forced to look away, like somehow he would be able to tell just from the look on her face. she tries to pass it off as something respectful, like she's giving him some privacy, like she hadn't just been watching him so intently mere seconds ago.
when she feels him move down beside her, she sits up a little straighter. waits. somehow her senses become heightened, keenly aware of his movements and what every sound means. limbs outstretched, retracted. articles of clothing removed.
when he reaches for her, she tips her head up, looking anywhere but down, and shifts just enough she can rise up on her knees to pull the blanket off of her and drape it around his own shoulders instead. easy enough to offer him that covering. easy enough to crawl under the canopy of his arm and fold herself into the space he's made at his side.
right. easy.
sitting there, huddled against a behemoth of a man who has shown her nothing but kindness, she can't help but feel a particular kind of small. not just physical โ though certainly she is, curled up into a ball he can so easily wrap an arm around, tuck against his side โ but in a hopelessness that makes her want to crawl between the floorboards and carry on unseen.
she would apologize, but she knows he won't take it. find some way to put the blame on himself, or share the load of it, and she would let him because she's too weak now to fight it. she can see the exchange happening so clearly, so she saves them both the trouble and swallows down the ready apology, focusing instead on rubbing some heat onto her arms, like he would probably prefer her to anyway.
she tucks her chin over the knees she'd drawn up and wrapped her arms around, tilts her head away from him just enough that she can look at him from the corner of her eye. it seems the most courteous way. ]
New York is probably looking really good right now, huh.
marta. he says her name and it's like the first time she's ever heard it, or something ridiculous like that. gruff and rumbly and just a little strangled, it sends such a visceral pulse through her that she is forced to look away, like somehow he would be able to tell just from the look on her face. she tries to pass it off as something respectful, like she's giving him some privacy, like she hadn't just been watching him so intently mere seconds ago.
when she feels him move down beside her, she sits up a little straighter. waits. somehow her senses become heightened, keenly aware of his movements and what every sound means. limbs outstretched, retracted. articles of clothing removed.
when he reaches for her, she tips her head up, looking anywhere but down, and shifts just enough she can rise up on her knees to pull the blanket off of her and drape it around his own shoulders instead. easy enough to offer him that covering. easy enough to crawl under the canopy of his arm and fold herself into the space he's made at his side.
right. easy.
sitting there, huddled against a behemoth of a man who has shown her nothing but kindness, she can't help but feel a particular kind of small. not just physical โ though certainly she is, curled up into a ball he can so easily wrap an arm around, tuck against his side โ but in a hopelessness that makes her want to crawl between the floorboards and carry on unseen.
she would apologize, but she knows he won't take it. find some way to put the blame on himself, or share the load of it, and she would let him because she's too weak now to fight it. she can see the exchange happening so clearly, so she saves them both the trouble and swallows down the ready apology, focusing instead on rubbing some heat onto her arms, like he would probably prefer her to anyway.
she tucks her chin over the knees she'd drawn up and wrapped her arms around, tilts her head away from him just enough that she can look at him from the corner of her eye. it seems the most courteous way. ]
New York is probably looking really good right now, huh.
[ He's relieved when she takes one of the rags for herself, both to see her dry that sopping hair โ at least somewhat โ and to have refrained from selfishly using every scrap on his own. Useful as her find was, it's not as though those three bits of cloth would cover all the job anyway (...would cover all of anything, actually, which is why he didn't even try).
Then as she reaches up, in the midst of their initial huddling, and tucks the blanket over his shoulders, Fet realizes how odd the sensation is: even divorced from current weirdness. He can't recall the last time somebody tried to bundle him under a blankie, at least not like this. Had to be more than a few decades and a foot in height back, though. He does his best to help, hunching down and in, to leave as much of the fabric free for her side as possible.
Still, he can feel how exposed she remains, the bare round of her opposite shoulder far too cool beneath his hand. And his response to that feeling is almost more reflexive than intentional, arm tightening her body against his. Till they're not just two sodden human lumps who happen to be hunkered side-by-side, but โ
Naked. Together.
On that point (on her points, and her smoothness; the whole of her lithe figure whose existence he's strictly-observationally noted under Marta's comfy sweaters and relaxed pants) his brain does some interesting mental gymnastics. But distracted as he may be, Fet's careful to drape his arm a very balanced amount. Leaving her room to shift, and to peer up at his face, without her needing to... y'know, face him.
What she says about New York makes him laugh for a sec, half-hitching and breathless. Like it's not really how he wanted to react, but couldn't help it. ]
Get into plenty of messes there, too. Thunderstorms, shitstorms, you name it.
Feel bad I ain't exactly squeaky clean here โ [ though it's only her scent he's smelling, the tang of fresh sweat through layers of cold air; melded with her rain-lashed skin, her unwillingly reinvigorated shampoo, into something altogether more unique. ]
But compared to how bad it could be, guess you're makin' out pretty good.
Then as she reaches up, in the midst of their initial huddling, and tucks the blanket over his shoulders, Fet realizes how odd the sensation is: even divorced from current weirdness. He can't recall the last time somebody tried to bundle him under a blankie, at least not like this. Had to be more than a few decades and a foot in height back, though. He does his best to help, hunching down and in, to leave as much of the fabric free for her side as possible.
Still, he can feel how exposed she remains, the bare round of her opposite shoulder far too cool beneath his hand. And his response to that feeling is almost more reflexive than intentional, arm tightening her body against his. Till they're not just two sodden human lumps who happen to be hunkered side-by-side, but โ
Naked. Together.
On that point (on her points, and her smoothness; the whole of her lithe figure whose existence he's strictly-observationally noted under Marta's comfy sweaters and relaxed pants) his brain does some interesting mental gymnastics. But distracted as he may be, Fet's careful to drape his arm a very balanced amount. Leaving her room to shift, and to peer up at his face, without her needing to... y'know, face him.
What she says about New York makes him laugh for a sec, half-hitching and breathless. Like it's not really how he wanted to react, but couldn't help it. ]
Get into plenty of messes there, too. Thunderstorms, shitstorms, you name it.
Feel bad I ain't exactly squeaky clean here โ [ though it's only her scent he's smelling, the tang of fresh sweat through layers of cold air; melded with her rain-lashed skin, her unwillingly reinvigorated shampoo, into something altogether more unique. ]
But compared to how bad it could be, guess you're makin' out pretty good.
[ naked. together. two words that make the beating of her heart rival the angry thundering of the sky overhead but she takes care to remind herself, repeatedly, that it's necessary. that it's practical. that it is absolutely not anything else but a logical execution of pure science here, just two bodies, sharing heat.
together.
naked. ]
You're free to go back outside to wash off if you like.
[ would talking be helpful? there's something about speaking and hot air, isn't there? if nothing else, talking provides her just enough to do that her mind doesn't trail elsewhere, that her eyes don't trail elsewhere, that she can just sit here and focus on the growing warmth between them, buoyed by the trapped heat beneath that blanket. they're both still a little damp, a little shivery, but the fire is helping to stave off any further cold. already she's starting to feel a little better, look a little less blue. ]
You're fine. [ there comes a small shake of her head. as often as he doesn't let her apologize, she returns the gesture in kind. ] Like you said, it could have been worse. It could have been guano.
[ it does put a little smile to her lips. a comforting ease at the thought that they can still talk like this, even in the face of something so outlandish, awkward. she still can't help but feel at fault here; even if he had gotten caught in the storm at least he could have waited it out on his own and not have to suffer such discomfort while trying to keep decent and worry about another person. but the ease with which he speaks to her (not to mention the ease with which he holds her, but she's trying very hard not to think too much about thatโ) helps soothe her into thinking this won't be a mistake she'll have no hope of walking back from. ]
together.
naked. ]
You're free to go back outside to wash off if you like.
[ would talking be helpful? there's something about speaking and hot air, isn't there? if nothing else, talking provides her just enough to do that her mind doesn't trail elsewhere, that her eyes don't trail elsewhere, that she can just sit here and focus on the growing warmth between them, buoyed by the trapped heat beneath that blanket. they're both still a little damp, a little shivery, but the fire is helping to stave off any further cold. already she's starting to feel a little better, look a little less blue. ]
You're fine. [ there comes a small shake of her head. as often as he doesn't let her apologize, she returns the gesture in kind. ] Like you said, it could have been worse. It could have been guano.
[ it does put a little smile to her lips. a comforting ease at the thought that they can still talk like this, even in the face of something so outlandish, awkward. she still can't help but feel at fault here; even if he had gotten caught in the storm at least he could have waited it out on his own and not have to suffer such discomfort while trying to keep decent and worry about another person. but the ease with which he speaks to her (not to mention the ease with which he holds her, but she's trying very hard not to think too much about thatโ) helps soothe her into thinking this won't be a mistake she'll have no hope of walking back from. ]
[ You're free to go back outside โ And the juddery chuckle hiccups out of him again, evidently just waiting in the wings. He recognizes it's prompted not only by her attempts at teasing, but the fact she can make them at all. Because weird as this might be, if it made things permanently weird between them, even a little... well. Fet wouldn't like that. Wouldn't want to bear it, even though he could. ]
Nah. Quite comfortable in here, actually. [ Pausing for her to cut eyes at him, and then pulling an exaggeratedly reconsidering face. ] Or gettin' there.
[ To him their shared bit of silliness doesn't seem forced; or if it does it's only like the woodstove's fire, something stoked to mutual benefit. With that heat creeping over them now, working its way across skin bared and scantily-blanket-clad both, he'd gladly crack cringier lines if it'd take care of Marta faster.
Though he notices the warmer color suffusing her lips, the olive cast reclaiming her cheeks. He'll know she's not too pale when those freckles stop looking so countable, Fet thinks (there's a stupid, swift-buried urge to fucking try it.) ]
There ya go. [ A congratulatory nod towards her wisdom on guano; then he shifts ever so slightly, not pulling her closer, not yanking back either. Just easing somewhat through the shoulders, as the need to stave off his shivers begins to (gloriously) ebb. ]
See, Voyage of the Mimi-ing it is no big deal, really.
[ Immediately he fixes a thoughtful gaze on the woodstove, steadfastly failing to elaborate. Because of course she's gotta ask, right? She's gotta. ]
Nah. Quite comfortable in here, actually. [ Pausing for her to cut eyes at him, and then pulling an exaggeratedly reconsidering face. ] Or gettin' there.
[ To him their shared bit of silliness doesn't seem forced; or if it does it's only like the woodstove's fire, something stoked to mutual benefit. With that heat creeping over them now, working its way across skin bared and scantily-blanket-clad both, he'd gladly crack cringier lines if it'd take care of Marta faster.
Though he notices the warmer color suffusing her lips, the olive cast reclaiming her cheeks. He'll know she's not too pale when those freckles stop looking so countable, Fet thinks (there's a stupid, swift-buried urge to fucking try it.) ]
There ya go. [ A congratulatory nod towards her wisdom on guano; then he shifts ever so slightly, not pulling her closer, not yanking back either. Just easing somewhat through the shoulders, as the need to stave off his shivers begins to (gloriously) ebb. ]
See, Voyage of the Mimi-ing it is no big deal, really.
[ Immediately he fixes a thoughtful gaze on the woodstove, steadfastly failing to elaborate. Because of course she's gotta ask, right? She's gotta. ]
[ even in such freezing temperatures, her skin betrays her, flushing in haphazard splotches across her cheeks and chest when he mentions so casually how comfortable he is. she knows he doesn't mean what her mind is twisting it to mean, so she has to make a dedicated effort to bite down on her lip to keep it from twisting into something pleased, delighted, and keep her eyes now rooted on the crackling logs in the nearby woodstove.
when he moves, she moves along with him. not pulled, but swaying in tandem like a boat along the waves. it wouldn't do to part so soon after they're finally starting to get the warmth bone-deep. but on top of that it's just... nice. nice to be held for a reason other than sympathy these days.
his other words have got her peering at the side of his face, an obvious sign of curiosity and prompting, but still he keeps silent, and marta recognizes the ploy for what it is. her sister gets like that too, whenever she's feeling playful and eager to share news. say just enough to get marta curious, but hold back the rest to force her to say something, making her show that she wants it.
she lifts her brows, wiggles her arm free from her side just so she can gently nudge his with an elbow. ]
Voyage of the what?
when he moves, she moves along with him. not pulled, but swaying in tandem like a boat along the waves. it wouldn't do to part so soon after they're finally starting to get the warmth bone-deep. but on top of that it's just... nice. nice to be held for a reason other than sympathy these days.
his other words have got her peering at the side of his face, an obvious sign of curiosity and prompting, but still he keeps silent, and marta recognizes the ploy for what it is. her sister gets like that too, whenever she's feeling playful and eager to share news. say just enough to get marta curious, but hold back the rest to force her to say something, making her show that she wants it.
she lifts her brows, wiggles her arm free from her side just so she can gently nudge his with an elbow. ]
Voyage of the what?
[ 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 โ 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.
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 โ 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 โ 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.
(suddenly, she has a recollection; once, walt had approved harlan about another new venture โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ
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.
But Marta laughs โ 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 โ 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 โ
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 โ 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?
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 โ 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?
[ Sloshing around somewhere in the sludge of his brain there's another joke โ one that ain't about to be dredged up, mind you โ 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. ]
When I was nine, maybe ten, yeah.
How 'bout you?
(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?
[ 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 โ 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 โ 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?
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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
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 โ 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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