[ at least a dozen. marta's mind swims with that knowledge, struggling to even comprehend how it could work conceptually, but to have to live it time and time again? does he ever worry? he says he's trained, but has he ever wondered some nights, where takeshi kovacs begins and the current body he's in ends.
his movement causes her thoughts to drag back to the present, something she's relieved about. she's only hearing about this all secondhand, and she's already having an existential crisis about it. he really must have had to endure this for... a long time. if he's grown this used to it.
she has to lean forward to see what he's referring to properly, sliding to the very edge of the desk, and even then she has to tuck her fingers into his collar and pull it away. without thinking her thumb swipes over the slightly raised skin it finds there, the cut itself far too perfect to be anything but deliberate. ]
[ the scar is so aged compared to the rest that decorate this body — a majority that have been there since before he'd starting using it, with stories he's only heard through ortega's description — that kovacs would barely even be able to feel it if he ran his own fingers across it. but with marta's touch, he can feel the direct tracing from her skin. ]
After the age of one, every body get a disc surgically implanted right there — we call them stacks. They hold the human consciousness like data, so people can get uploaded and downloaded around from sleeve to sleeve, any with a stack. Even if something happens to the body — you can shoot it with holes, if you want — as long as the stack is undamaged, protecting that consciousness, a person can stay alive.
[ which means right there, at the base of his neck, is his weakest point, a spot typically more guarded than it is right now, baring it to her like this. ]
[ suddenly it all starts to make a little more sense. his overall cavalier attitude about being walked in on naked seems only obvious now. when the norm allows you to trade bodies like you would seasonal wear, what's the point in forming attachments?
before, the swipe of her thumb had been absentminded, but at the gentle declaration that there, right beneath her fingertips, rests the entirety of who he considers himself to be... the next caress is a deliberate one, gentle but lingering. ]
Your hair is getting long.
[ it's a quiet, offhanded observation. were he to sit up properly, his hair would fully cover that scar. another idle pass of her fingers and then she's leaning back for a more stable seat on the desk, watching him closely. ]
Do you stay in them long? The sleeves?
[ has he ever had to cut one's hair the way he likes? get new clothes because it's gained or lost weight? or do those things not even matter, in the long run? ]
[ there's no reason to attach himself to any one body, knowing that he'll never be linked to it long, that from one day to the next, his face could shift and he'll have to force himself to adjust to new features that will never truly belong to him, lines etched from his lips, along his cheeks, wrinkles formed from someone else's life.
it's why he doesn't think much about the little things, minor details like the growth of his hair, the way that marta points it out now in a way that's surprising, simple yet out of his own acknowledgement because for all the way he's skilled to be attentive to details, it's typically not his own that he gives much thought to.
but though this body isn't his own, where her fingers rest is a stack containing every piece of himself that's solely his own, collected portions of his memories, his personality, his thoughts, his dreams, all stored like data, preserved for nearly three centuries.
when she leans back, he gives a turn of his head to look back before his the rest of his body follows, straightening back up in his chair to face her again. ]
Not usually. If I'm not in one for the purposes of a mission, then I'm usually bouncing through them to stay hidden. [ back when he'd been the one making plenty of enemies. ] Only had this one less than a week before I ended up on the station. Since then, this is ... one of the longer ones I've stayed in.
[ several months now, he realizes. though he's not sure he'd even have the option to switch sleeves while making this deal, since he's found he's the only one who even has a stack at all.
he gazes up at her, a quiet pensive stare, before his fingers reach behind his neck to graze against the longer strands she had drawn attention to. ] Not used to thinking about a cut.
[ there are times when he says things so casually that marta almost misses them, important little nuggets of information that provide a deeper look into the man behind that persistent cloud of cigarette smoke. like just now, how he says that: to stay hidden. if it weren't something marta knows so intimately in her own way, she might never have caught it for how easily he just breezes past the words, like the sentiment isn't as devastating as it implies. but it makes sense, the more she thinks about it. knowing he's the last of the envoys, that they'd been used and targeted by the very same people they'd once been loyal to... how many lives has he lived in hiding? how many lifetimes has he spent just running away? ]
Do you want one?
[ none of those questions she winds up asking, drifting instead to something more benign for the moment. the thoughtful look in his eyes always gives her pause, makes her want to step back a little. just enough to let him breathe. ]
Or are you going for the, [ she pauses briefly to make a vague, circling gesture at his whole face, ] full effect here.
[ kovacs always takes care in not necessarily saying too much when it comes to slipping out a few details here and there about his own life, though there's plenty about himself that he wouldn't categorize as being a secret, even if most of the time, he wouldn't purposely elaborate. these days, he wonders how long it'll be before he won't even have answers to questions that might be asked, before those memories begin to slip and he begins to be unsure what's even true about himself anymore.
talking about a haircut seems easier, better than talking about past sleeves, some he could have already forgotten about without realizing.
it's a good distraction, even giving a minor smile when she gestures to his appearance, a little more disheveled than even normal, face unshaven, the skin around his eyes a little more worn. ]
Well, it's hardly looked like anyone here even showers, so I was just blending in. [ his fingers run across his chin, feeling the itch of the longer hairs there. ] Why? You don't think I'm looking cute?
[ she watches his hand trace the line of his chin and wonders if he still bothers with vanity, considering all she knows now about the ephemeral nature of his appearances. he said he hadn't chosen this body — she wonders if he ever got to choose any of them, and if he did what would he look for in choosing? what does he think of the one he's on now, or does he not bother to think of it at all since it hadn't been voluntary in the first place? ]
[ it's as much of an answer as she'll offer for a baiting question like that, giving him a polite smile before sliding herself off the desk just so she can rummage through one of its drawers.
she eventually finds what she's looking for — a pair of scissors — and brandishes it quite close to his face with the ease of someone who's held many a scalpel during her years of residency. ]
[ though kovacs doesn't think much about his own appearance, he still knows it's a face that would be classified as "pretty" for all that ryker's put it through shit and back with the evidence of its scarring, attractive enough to draw attention, even if it isn't the kind he cares about drawing most of the time. but if it means waving it around for joke or two, he won't show much restraint, nose even crinkling a bit at her retort. ]
You comparing me to a dog, Cabrera?
[ the displayed squint shows offense, even if he doesn't carry any, tsking under his breath for a moment before he watches her slide off of the desk, turning in his seat to follow her movements, brows raising when he peers upon the glint of the scissors held so closely to his face. ]
You mean, do I trust you not to poke my eye out? [ he gives a bit of a smirk, gaze turning up to her with a slight purse of his lips. ] Go ahead. Make me pretty.
[ which still doesn't explain if it's an insult or not but that's just how she likes it.
taking advantage of him being turned towards her she takes a step closer and lightly combs her fingers through the tawny strands fallen over his eyes. meanwhile the scissors draws closer still, till she's tracing a line down the side of his jaw with its blunted edge. ]
Anyway, I can't work miracles. But I'm sure I can take a little off the top just fine.
[ insult or not, either he's ignoring it, he's used to it, or he enjoys the criticism since it doesn't lessen the amusement in his expression. his eyes only shift to widen slightly when she drags those scissors against his face, more intrigued by the gesture than threatened. she might not be a necessarily violent type, but somehow she still waves a certain kind of power with them in her hand; he kind of likes it. ]
Well, since you're the one who's gotta stare at me most, I leave it to you.
[ day in and day out, glancing at this face regularly has become her problem. ]
I trust you. [ spoken with a light air that pairs with the already present playfulness of the conversation, while simultaneously being plenty true on its own, the honesty visible in his gaze when he peers up at her. ]
[ it's a sentiment she doesn't take lightly, however the current context would have her believe. like so many other things spoken and done between them, there's more than one layer to dissect, meaning upon subtext upon meaning flooding their interactions for as long as she's known him. like somehow simple truth isn't enough to possibly convey all that they need to.
funny how a month or so of sharing spaces can do. ]
Remember saying that after you see what I've done to you.
[ stepping around him, she takes brief refuge in being away from his gripping gaze. a second to gather herself, and then she's turning her attention back to the tawny strands at hand. combing her fingers through his hair, dragging fingertips along his scalp. getting a sense of the lay of the land, swooping her fingers down to trace his hairline along the back of his neck. she takes a first snip, the sound like a knife through the air. did she even stop to think about it? ]
[ trust isn't something he can hand off easily these days, or on any days, since betrayal of trust has so often been a lasting factor in his history, since nearly three decades under jaeger's care only to find out every word from his pseudo-father had been an outright lie to keep him trapped under his grip. he'd learn better on how to read people then, to not let wishful thinking and optimism of hope get the best of him.
the fact that marta can't lie has nothing to do with it, instead relying on the close proximity they've so often crawled into these weeks, of long hours in a shared space, of memorizing smaller habits because it more easily passes the days and makes for an easier story to sell when they're putting up a front to the rest of the town. it was a partnership born out of convenience but lately, the line's been blurred with the actual reliability he's found with her. ]
Face like this — you can only improve it.
[ he wears the smirk even as she rounds to standing behind him where she can't see it, the expression laced in his words before he feels the stroke of her fingers slide through his hair to test what she's working with, coaxing him to relax, like an impromptu massage he hadn't bargained for.
when he hears the almost immediate snip, he raises his brow but remains still. ] You act fast.
I have to, if I want to beat the second-guessing. [ not that that happens much. not that he should feel worried about it. once she finds her rhythm, her hands move with the same sort of quiet assuredness that they do were they treating him for another laceration. and just like with that, they fall into a familiar, easy silence where she works and he waits.
after some time she's moved to his side, lowering herself down so she's level with his face to ensure her cuts remain even. eventually her eyes fall to the bright pink bag tucked beneath the desk, beside his foot. glaring in how out of place it is. (to be fair it usually is, but it's only more so since they've arrived in scorpion's bend.)
she gestures towards it with her chin. ]
It would be convenient if you carried around a razor in there. Otherwise we may have to move this to your room.
[ talking between them has become an easy habit, but in the same breath, so has the silence. even with no words spoken, when it's just the soft, subtle movements of her steps as she shifts the angles of her cuts to his hair and the steady inhales and exhales of their breathing, it doesn't feel out of place, and he often finds he could linger in it with her, like there's an understanding when speech isn't needed.
strangely enough, sitting there steady as she works, similar to the relationship of their actions when she's stitching up a wound, there's something almost serene to it.
when she does break the silence, he lifts his eyes to her before following the gesture of her chin down to the floor where his bag rests without bother. ]
You know, if you want to go to my room so bad, you don't need to use an excuse.
[ a joke, of course, always evident with the subtle upward tilt of his smirk and the way he doesn't linger too long on it. ]
Got a knife if you're comfortable enough using it.
[ he looks so proud of himself for that comment that it feels like her usual roll of her eyes isn't quite enough to fully convey her exasperation, so it's convenient she's got a fistful of hair she can give a nice, firm tug to, forcing his head to tip back for no other reason than to show that she can. that she's still the one with the most control here. funny how so often the ease between them is simply a matter of seeking a balance. ]
[ sometimes he could see it in her face, the way she responds to his comments without actually responding, not in any sort of expression that's obvious, but he underestimates her privilege of power in the current situation as she gives his hair that tug that draws him back without him prepared to counter it — not that he's sure he would have even if he'd been anticipating the move.
a slightly breathless chuckle escapes low in his throat, a subconscious swipe of his tongue brushing across his lip. ]
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no subject
his movement causes her thoughts to drag back to the present, something she's relieved about. she's only hearing about this all secondhand, and she's already having an existential crisis about it. he really must have had to endure this for... a long time. if he's grown this used to it.
she has to lean forward to see what he's referring to properly, sliding to the very edge of the desk, and even then she has to tuck her fingers into his collar and pull it away. without thinking her thumb swipes over the slightly raised skin it finds there, the cut itself far too perfect to be anything but deliberate. ]
Is this how it's done?
no subject
After the age of one, every body get a disc surgically implanted right there — we call them stacks. They hold the human consciousness like data, so people can get uploaded and downloaded around from sleeve to sleeve, any with a stack. Even if something happens to the body — you can shoot it with holes, if you want — as long as the stack is undamaged, protecting that consciousness, a person can stay alive.
[ which means right there, at the base of his neck, is his weakest point, a spot typically more guarded than it is right now, baring it to her like this. ]
Where you're touching — that's my whole life.
no subject
before, the swipe of her thumb had been absentminded, but at the gentle declaration that there, right beneath her fingertips, rests the entirety of who he considers himself to be... the next caress is a deliberate one, gentle but lingering. ]
Your hair is getting long.
[ it's a quiet, offhanded observation. were he to sit up properly, his hair would fully cover that scar. another idle pass of her fingers and then she's leaning back for a more stable seat on the desk, watching him closely. ]
Do you stay in them long? The sleeves?
[ has he ever had to cut one's hair the way he likes? get new clothes because it's gained or lost weight? or do those things not even matter, in the long run? ]
no subject
it's why he doesn't think much about the little things, minor details like the growth of his hair, the way that marta points it out now in a way that's surprising, simple yet out of his own acknowledgement because for all the way he's skilled to be attentive to details, it's typically not his own that he gives much thought to.
but though this body isn't his own, where her fingers rest is a stack containing every piece of himself that's solely his own, collected portions of his memories, his personality, his thoughts, his dreams, all stored like data, preserved for nearly three centuries.
when she leans back, he gives a turn of his head to look back before his the rest of his body follows, straightening back up in his chair to face her again. ]
Not usually. If I'm not in one for the purposes of a mission, then I'm usually bouncing through them to stay hidden. [ back when he'd been the one making plenty of enemies. ] Only had this one less than a week before I ended up on the station. Since then, this is ... one of the longer ones I've stayed in.
[ several months now, he realizes. though he's not sure he'd even have the option to switch sleeves while making this deal, since he's found he's the only one who even has a stack at all.
he gazes up at her, a quiet pensive stare, before his fingers reach behind his neck to graze against the longer strands she had drawn attention to. ] Not used to thinking about a cut.
no subject
Do you want one?
[ none of those questions she winds up asking, drifting instead to something more benign for the moment. the thoughtful look in his eyes always gives her pause, makes her want to step back a little. just enough to let him breathe. ]
Or are you going for the, [ she pauses briefly to make a vague, circling gesture at his whole face, ] full effect here.
no subject
talking about a haircut seems easier, better than talking about past sleeves, some he could have already forgotten about without realizing.
it's a good distraction, even giving a minor smile when she gestures to his appearance, a little more disheveled than even normal, face unshaven, the skin around his eyes a little more worn. ]
Well, it's hardly looked like anyone here even showers, so I was just blending in. [ his fingers run across his chin, feeling the itch of the longer hairs there. ] Why? You don't think I'm looking cute?
no subject
Do they have Scottish terriers in your world?
[ it's as much of an answer as she'll offer for a baiting question like that, giving him a polite smile before sliding herself off the desk just so she can rummage through one of its drawers.
she eventually finds what she's looking for — a pair of scissors — and brandishes it quite close to his face with the ease of someone who's held many a scalpel during her years of residency. ]
Want to see how steady my hands are?
no subject
You comparing me to a dog, Cabrera?
[ the displayed squint shows offense, even if he doesn't carry any, tsking under his breath for a moment before he watches her slide off of the desk, turning in his seat to follow her movements, brows raising when he peers upon the glint of the scissors held so closely to his face. ]
You mean, do I trust you not to poke my eye out? [ he gives a bit of a smirk, gaze turning up to her with a slight purse of his lips. ] Go ahead. Make me pretty.
no subject
[ which still doesn't explain if it's an insult or not but that's just how she likes it.
taking advantage of him being turned towards her she takes a step closer and lightly combs her fingers through the tawny strands fallen over his eyes. meanwhile the scissors draws closer still, till she's tracing a line down the side of his jaw with its blunted edge. ]
Anyway, I can't work miracles. But I'm sure I can take a little off the top just fine.
no subject
Well, since you're the one who's gotta stare at me most, I leave it to you.
[ day in and day out, glancing at this face regularly has become her problem. ]
I trust you. [ spoken with a light air that pairs with the already present playfulness of the conversation, while simultaneously being plenty true on its own, the honesty visible in his gaze when he peers up at her. ]
no subject
funny how a month or so of sharing spaces can do. ]
Remember saying that after you see what I've done to you.
[ stepping around him, she takes brief refuge in being away from his gripping gaze. a second to gather herself, and then she's turning her attention back to the tawny strands at hand. combing her fingers through his hair, dragging fingertips along his scalp. getting a sense of the lay of the land, swooping her fingers down to trace his hairline along the back of his neck. she takes a first snip, the sound like a knife through the air. did she even stop to think about it? ]
no subject
the fact that marta can't lie has nothing to do with it, instead relying on the close proximity they've so often crawled into these weeks, of long hours in a shared space, of memorizing smaller habits because it more easily passes the days and makes for an easier story to sell when they're putting up a front to the rest of the town. it was a partnership born out of convenience but lately, the line's been blurred with the actual reliability he's found with her. ]
Face like this — you can only improve it.
[ he wears the smirk even as she rounds to standing behind him where she can't see it, the expression laced in his words before he feels the stroke of her fingers slide through his hair to test what she's working with, coaxing him to relax, like an impromptu massage he hadn't bargained for.
when he hears the almost immediate snip, he raises his brow but remains still. ] You act fast.
no subject
after some time she's moved to his side, lowering herself down so she's level with his face to ensure her cuts remain even. eventually her eyes fall to the bright pink bag tucked beneath the desk, beside his foot. glaring in how out of place it is. (to be fair it usually is, but it's only more so since they've arrived in scorpion's bend.)
she gestures towards it with her chin. ]
It would be convenient if you carried around a razor in there. Otherwise we may have to move this to your room.
no subject
strangely enough, sitting there steady as she works, similar to the relationship of their actions when she's stitching up a wound, there's something almost serene to it.
when she does break the silence, he lifts his eyes to her before following the gesture of her chin down to the floor where his bag rests without bother. ]
You know, if you want to go to my room so bad, you don't need to use an excuse.
[ a joke, of course, always evident with the subtle upward tilt of his smirk and the way he doesn't linger too long on it. ]
Got a knife if you're comfortable enough using it.
no subject
A knife works. What's the worst that can happen?
no subject
a slightly breathless chuckle escapes low in his throat, a subconscious swipe of his tongue brushing across his lip. ]
Yeah, you seem plenty gentle. I'd hardly worry.