[ there are few things that remain unchanged in their routine since getting together. little things, quiet habits that are sacred, or perhaps foundational in who they are when they're together — like sharing a bottle of whiskey over starless nights, or taking turns turning pages on a new book.
tonight they feast on another classic from her world, oedipus rex by sophocles, and they've just come to that wonderfully terrible moment when the characters discover how they've become victims of their own undoing... or how little their doings even mattered, depending on how you decide to interpret it that day.
curled up against kovacs' chest, marta slowly runs a finger over the page of the book splayed open on her lap, legs folded over his while they occupy an armchair in one of the empty corners of the infirmary. it's a quiet night, most patients gone or asleep. it's the sort of night that puts one in a thoughtful mood. ]
[ as much as they've settled on routines for as long as they've known each other, since the days in scorpion's bend where the presence of one another's company had become such a constant that it seemed to strike everything off balance when that world seemed to crumble around them, he always notices how dependent he's become of those moments when things get to be their most complex in retrieving the orbs. the extra time spent on viveca's world was a reminder of how much he urged for this quiet corner of the infirmary — a contrast to the way that kovacs has always told himself to never let himself feel too familiar with anything.
it's in part what draws him to marta, where these little habits become something of a comforting haven instead of dull repetition, where the cozy settlement of her body over his lap as she peels open another book is a lure towards the feeling of safety, of a kind of peace he's never really found elsewhere.
his fingers dance lazily against her arm, a lazy back and forth against the soft threads of her sweater as they read the words together, pausing only when she speaks out a question outside the quotes from the book. ]
I don't know. [ he answers quietly, eyes still on the ink upon the pages. ] Sometimes, I ... I think I've been handed enough shitty cards that it's gotta be something set in stone. Other times, I like to believe we've got more of a say than we think we do.
[ were she younger, a little less sure of herself, she might have spared some worry about the dullness of evenings like these. that certainly he would have preferred something else, something more exciting or spontaneous or all the other adjectives marta wouldn't normally associate with herself. but the thing about always being honest meant he'd known who she was long before their mutual decision to accept and nurture this thing between them, and so accept every other part of each other too. even the quiet and boring parts.
(—but, see, the thing is? she knows him too. she knows him well enough to confidently tell a younger, less-sure-of-herself marta to eat it. kovacs chose happiness. he chose her.) ]
Maybe it's a bit of both. There has to be a word for that somewhere.
[ she watches him look down at the book, her canine idly chewing on the corner of her lip. it's a more anxious tic than she usually has; perhaps this has been on her mind longer than she thought. ]
Tak.
[ she doesn't often use his name, and less so the nickname he so tenderly handed her. she knows she's not the only one who knows it, but that doesn't make her want to treasure it any less. and some moments just seem to necessitate it more. ]
The friend I'm here for... the one who died for me...
His name was Harlan.
[ a pause to let the weight of his name settle on her tongue. it's been so long since she's said it outloud.
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action | on the station, post the fox and the hare
tonight they feast on another classic from her world, oedipus rex by sophocles, and they've just come to that wonderfully terrible moment when the characters discover how they've become victims of their own undoing... or how little their doings even mattered, depending on how you decide to interpret it that day.
curled up against kovacs' chest, marta slowly runs a finger over the page of the book splayed open on her lap, legs folded over his while they occupy an armchair in one of the empty corners of the infirmary. it's a quiet night, most patients gone or asleep. it's the sort of night that puts one in a thoughtful mood. ]
...Do you think it exists? Destiny?
no subject
it's in part what draws him to marta, where these little habits become something of a comforting haven instead of dull repetition, where the cozy settlement of her body over his lap as she peels open another book is a lure towards the feeling of safety, of a kind of peace he's never really found elsewhere.
his fingers dance lazily against her arm, a lazy back and forth against the soft threads of her sweater as they read the words together, pausing only when she speaks out a question outside the quotes from the book. ]
I don't know. [ he answers quietly, eyes still on the ink upon the pages. ] Sometimes, I ... I think I've been handed enough shitty cards that it's gotta be something set in stone. Other times, I like to believe we've got more of a say than we think we do.
no subject
(—but, see, the thing is? she knows him too. she knows him well enough to confidently tell a younger, less-sure-of-herself marta to eat it. kovacs chose happiness. he chose her.) ]
Maybe it's a bit of both. There has to be a word for that somewhere.
[ she watches him look down at the book, her canine idly chewing on the corner of her lip. it's a more anxious tic than she usually has; perhaps this has been on her mind longer than she thought. ]
Tak.
[ she doesn't often use his name, and less so the nickname he so tenderly handed her. she knows she's not the only one who knows it, but that doesn't make her want to treasure it any less. and some moments just seem to necessitate it more. ]
The friend I'm here for... the one who died for me...
His name was Harlan.
[ a pause to let the weight of his name settle on her tongue. it's been so long since she's said it outloud.
that worried corner of her lip quirks up. ]
Isn't life strange?