[ he'd been cautious about this. what happened with quell centuries past, what happened with clara just months ago — kovacs had learned the dangers of trying to grasp onto something concrete, something that could make his heart swell with the feeling of being wanted, of being worth more than the disposable life he often believed himself to be.
but she isn't quell, dedicated to something overwhelmingly bigger than herself, a seed of revolution, and a symbol molded to restore the cracks spreading across humanity. she isn't clara, a fleeting dream describing the limitless stretches of space, always craving more and never knowing stillness.
marta is something else, something he hadn't even known to exist. when quell talks of hope, it's about the chase. when clara talks of hope, it's about the fantasy. when marta talks of hopes, it's —
it's real. she isn't coating truth. she's earnest. she wants to believe it, chooses to. and kovacs? he wants to be in it with her.
the chance is already here.
he's seen her face a hundred times, but he looks at her like he needs to learn it all over again, like what he sees is new, because in some parts, it is. not because he's forgotten (he knows the chance of that is there, but he won't let it hold him back, not anymore), but because he it's the first time, in a long time, he's letting himself have it.
we take what is offered, quell had taught him. but for the first time, he's really doing it.
slowly, he leans in, a brush of his nose caressing the tip of hers, carefully as he lingers in that position, eyes closing. for a moment, he simply breathes her in, fingers resting at her neck, calloused tips curling soft to her skin.
then his lips meet hers, almost tentative but without doubt, a promise that he isn't going to resist her, not anymore, his mouth firm with a kiss that welcomes her past the doors he'd tried to keep shut. ]
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but she isn't quell, dedicated to something overwhelmingly bigger than herself, a seed of revolution, and a symbol molded to restore the cracks spreading across humanity. she isn't clara, a fleeting dream describing the limitless stretches of space, always craving more and never knowing stillness.
marta is something else, something he hadn't even known to exist. when quell talks of hope, it's about the chase. when clara talks of hope, it's about the fantasy. when marta talks of hopes, it's —
it's real. she isn't coating truth. she's earnest. she wants to believe it, chooses to. and kovacs? he wants to be in it with her.
the chance is already here.
he's seen her face a hundred times, but he looks at her like he needs to learn it all over again, like what he sees is new, because in some parts, it is. not because he's forgotten (he knows the chance of that is there, but he won't let it hold him back, not anymore), but because he it's the first time, in a long time, he's letting himself have it.
we take what is offered, quell had taught him. but for the first time, he's really doing it.
slowly, he leans in, a brush of his nose caressing the tip of hers, carefully as he lingers in that position, eyes closing. for a moment, he simply breathes her in, fingers resting at her neck, calloused tips curling soft to her skin.
then his lips meet hers, almost tentative but without doubt, a promise that he isn't going to resist her, not anymore, his mouth firm with a kiss that welcomes her past the doors he'd tried to keep shut. ]