[ when he first met her, marta was modest, quiet, and always looking ready to hide into the nearest crawl space to just stay out of the way. teach me, she'd asked him once, to be tougher, to speak out for herself, like she somehow needed him to show her how. except she never did, moving on her own in all those times that she raised her voice at him, blurting out a series of swears in spanish which he only assume were some flowery words aimed in his direction, holding no restraint in putting him in his place when he tried to call the shots.
she does the same here, her voice only partially quiet like she's remaining aware of how loud she is in a public space, but he can hear the sharpness in her voice, the kind he hears when he knows she isn't backing down on what she thinks and making sure he knows it.
even more of the message comes across when she uses his full name like she's somehow reminding him of who he is, all at once.
friends — it's not a word he uses often, not because he doesn't believe in it, but because he tries to resist getting too cozy with it, always prepared to lose those that earn the label. he knows he has friends here, knowing that in the endless hours they spent side by side, familiarizing themselves with each other, marta became the best of them. it doesn't make him feel any less guilty. ]
I lied to you. [ he shakes his head, pulling that out like it's one of the things that's bothering him most in this confession, like it matters more than the fact that he changed his deal or that he's losing his memories, that this is where it's all gone wrong. ] I didn't tell you what was happening to me and you — you almost died for me, Marta.
[ and there it is, the crack in his attempt to speak calmly, distraught in his eyes as he leans forward towards her, using his own finger now to point at himself, like hers wasn't enough, his voice raising slightly. ]
My fate's been sealed and you still risked yourself for me. After everything else, I can't go on losing you too! I —
[ it's more than he means to say. biting his tongue, he falls silent for a moment, straightening up and collecting himself before speaking up again, a little more quietly. ]
You once told me you'd hold on to hope in my place. But if it also means you get hurt in my place too, I ... I can't let you do that for me. Please.
[ as he continues speaking, she finds it's less what he has to say that overwhelms her, and more the way he's saying it. he's never once raised his voice to her, or even really around her, so it's a startling thing to hear for the first time, most especially when she had been careful to keep her own voice level. that strain in his tone, like something strangled and desperate. it sounds so out of place on someone who she's used to relying on for stability when she would get caught up in her own uncertainties and anxieties.
she really doesn't know how to feel about the fact that the one to cause it is her. ]
Am I supposed to be mad at you because you didn't tell me the whole truth? [ in direct response to his growing intensity, she sobers up and her voice softens. ] Is that supposed to make a difference? Like I wouldn't have still done what I did?
[ before anything else, before he goes on to put yet another weight on his shoulders, he has to know: ]
I don't regret what I did. Just like I know you don't regret doing what you did for Clara.
[ she has always been honest, and sometimes to a fault. sometimes at the expense of herself, in revealing feelings she won't yet name, ones she hasn't even really allowed herself to think too long on, but airing it all out there for anyone to make the connections themselves.
later, later, she'll think back on this and be rightfully horrified. she'll recognize the selfishness in herself, for standing firm where he clearly wants her to waver. certainly, it would be easier that way, wouldn't it? to let him make his peace and slip back into the den of solitude and loneliness he had prepared for himself. and maybe before, she would have, but now she's grown greedy.
(in a way, it's kind of poetic. thanks to him, she's learned to want a little harder for herself.)
she lets out a huff of a laugh, exasperated. ]
Estúpido.
[ him. her. ]
Did you think you would mean any less to me, if I knew how much less of you there'd be?
[ he isn't able to tone it down before it's already out there, like a half-confessed truth he'd been trying to keep swallowed for all that it's prodded and lingered in the pit of his stomach, gripping at his chest in the inopportune moments like it does right now. he'd managed to keep himself composed with clara just minutes ago, but right now, his heart pounds too hard from the burning desperation of his plea to think too clearly.
when it all does finally still, where even his breath seems to catch in his throat, it's when she says the things he doesn't expect, the things he'd rather not hear and, yet, latches onto them like he'd been so starved for it.
he watches her with a lasting silence, though his eyes scream out so much — surprise, relief, worry — everything at once like he's battling in himself how to feel over those words, undeserving of it and yet wanting to hold onto them without ever letting go.
it's the feeling he'd felt in that bar, the one that was ready to breathe her in and nothing else. ]
I didn't want you to care about me.
[ a quiet honesty that's not meant to judge her on how she might feel, silent again for a moment after before he takes a light step forward, closer to her. ]
When this started — [ he realizes as soon as he says it, the strangeness of those words. when this started. this, like what they are could be embodied in any sort of definition. ] I was only thinking of myself. I was selfish and I didn't think —
[ that anyone would care about me. that you would care about me. not like this.
he swallows, lump thick in his throat. raising his fingers, he grazes the tips light against her cheek, like he's resistant to giving in too much. ]
One of these days, I might wake up and not remember any of this. Everything we did, everything we said — just gone. I don't want the day to come where you see me looking at you any differently than the way I am now.
[ by now, she's spent enough time looking into his eyes that she can paint the color of them if she had to. she knows they're a similar hue to her own, but there's something sharper in his, older and weary. she's wondered before if she would be able to recognize him in any of his other bodies by just the look in his eyes, often guarded but yearning. if the eyes are really the windows to your soul, and your soul isn't dependent on the body it inhabits, then it shouldn't make much of a difference, right?
right now, it's like he isn't even trying to hold anything back. or maybe he's simply too tired to be able to. too raw and beaten, broken hands grasping at a hope too delicate to stay still.
she's wondered before: how would it feel to look at him and see a different face staring back? now he's got her fearing something else entirely — a familiar face holding an unfamiliar look. honestly? it sounds terrifying. but he's been brave for her before; the least she could do is be brave for him in turn.
carefully, she lifts a hand to settle it right behind his, letting her fingers slot and lace in the spaces left between his. fitting their pieces together. ]
It might happen.
[ her voice is gentle, but that's a reality that would be foolish to ignore. and despite it all, even if they both have their own separate ways to go about it, they're both still realists. a deal is a deal. and by now they both know how cruel these orbs can truly be. ]
But just because you forget, doesn't mean it has to be lost to you forever.
[ she leaves his side for a moment, moving to the table beside the bed to look through its drawer. it doesn't take her long to find what she's been trying to look for since he'd mentioned his plight earlier, holding the pen up between them when she reclaims her place before him. ]
You can write your story, Takeshi. Who said the ending has to be a sad one?
[ everything he says carries more than what's said, admitting to something even more than he had originally planned on, now that she's prodded at the man who tried to bare it all to her in mere doses, in a simplified version that confesses the truth without leaving it too stripped to be perceived as more than he'd want it to be.
but marta has the tactics for scratching and digging out more. with her, it's never about living in a fantasy, in dodging the truth for something prettier; she cuts him raw with every word, and in the past few months, it's forced him to turn and face exactly what he's been running from, from the memories he's losing, from the choice he's made to discard his own life entirely. she never even had to know the truth for her to point him in that direction.
and even now as he paints her the harshness of what could ultimately happen, what prevents him from wanting to give too much of himself away, she doesn't pretend otherwise.
for him, hope was always the idea of a joke, of wishing for something that can't exist. in marta's world, it's peeling back the dirty layers of the real world to find the little spaces in between of everything broken and taking hold of what's not.
he watches her move away and return with that pen in her hand, brows knitting with confusion at the move until she spells it a bit more clearly, his expression soon softening with the realization of what she's suggesting. ]
It's not going to be up to me.
[ it's a minor attempt to keep fighting, albeit a weaker one as his shoulders slouch, watching her eyes with an attentive, understanding stare. because she's not wrong. there's still a way for him to hold on, even if he doesn't want to rely on it. ]
Are you ... sure you still want to be a part of it?
[ a part of his story. the one with the ending not yet written. ]
[ it seems such a funny thing to ask, now after everything. after the whole truth has come out, and yet she stands here still, gripping the pen tight in her hand because his own hands have grown too used to letting go. doesn't that scream her answer loud enough?
but maybe that's not the point here. maybe he's asking not because her answer isn't clear, but because he'd never had the chance to ask before. that people already left, before he could even form the words.
so maybe, right now, it's more important what he wants. what he still gets to decide.
to know that, despite everything, there are still some things he can control. ]
since when has he ever really been in charge of his own story? whether it's pulling the trigger on his father or turning his back on ctac or standing with the envoys, the world has always moved him along with each step, pulling him one way or another until he's left with nothing but inevitable choices. any decision he's made for himself has never been made to last, everything he's wanted has never stayed.
— why would it start now?
but she's giving him the choice here, with her hand held out, pen clenched within her fingers, and she isn't shaking on her question.
his eyes linger on her without knowing for how long, knowing what awaits him with this deal, knowing what he may be dragging her further into, knowing that she now knows it all too. he's still looking at her when he reaches to curl his fingers around the pen and around her knuckles, holding both at once. ]
Yeah.
[ he finally answers, spoken like a sigh. she's giving him the choice, but his gaze still looks to her like he's still asking the question in his every word. like he needs her to know she still has an out. ]
I ... want you with me. [ whatever that means, he doesn't know. he takes a step closer, quiet in his breath. ] Whatever happens to me after all of this, I'd want you there.
[ marta doesn't realize she'd been holding her breath, waiting on his answer with a slight flutter of apprehension. it strikes her then that it's been a long time since she'd felt she'd overstayed her welcome with him; that the worry of being a burden hasn't reared its ugly head since the first few weeks they'd settled into scorpion's bend. but for just that brief moment, she can't help but wonder — is it truly over?
was her place beside him as temporary as their stay?
maybe it might have been, once. but not now, not when he holds her hand, meets her eyes, tells her what he wants. what he lets himself want, for once. ]
I'll be there. [ emotion floods her voice, makes it thick. relief, joy, anticipation. ] Wherever you need me, prometo.
[ this close, it's so very easy to draw him into the circle of her arms. after nights spent huddled together for warmth, listening to the sound of each other's heartbeats for lullabies, it feels only natural to wrap her arms around him now, to rise up on her tiptoes and thread one hand into his hair.
i'm here, the squeeze of her arms promise. i'm here i'm here i'm here.
by his ear, without the weight of his eyes on her to make her shy, she confesses, ]
[ kovacs isn't used to getting what he wants, to earnestly ask for something and have it handed right to him. he's the one who makes things happen for everyone else — following orders, completing the mission, making deals. but just being able to stay close to someone? that's never been allowed, and even now, with marta making her promise to him, he't not sure how long it's meant to last.
rei, quell, clara — they either left or were taken. living longer than one should, you get used to the idea of impermanence.
but with marta circling her arms around him, holding him in close to her, he finds himself wanting to pretend this won't be like the rest, that it won't go wrong, that he won't lose her. that'll be a change for you, he can almost hear quell say, but her voice is drowned out by the gentle one at his ear, the one that draws him in to sink his face against the crook of her neck.
nothing else leaves his own mouth, bringing his arms around her, one hand splaying against her back as the other one still clutches the pen she's handed him. instead, he holds her, his sigh calm and slow against her skin, and lets himself believe she really isn't going anywhere. ]
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no subject
she does the same here, her voice only partially quiet like she's remaining aware of how loud she is in a public space, but he can hear the sharpness in her voice, the kind he hears when he knows she isn't backing down on what she thinks and making sure he knows it.
even more of the message comes across when she uses his full name like she's somehow reminding him of who he is, all at once.
friends — it's not a word he uses often, not because he doesn't believe in it, but because he tries to resist getting too cozy with it, always prepared to lose those that earn the label. he knows he has friends here, knowing that in the endless hours they spent side by side, familiarizing themselves with each other, marta became the best of them. it doesn't make him feel any less guilty. ]
I lied to you. [ he shakes his head, pulling that out like it's one of the things that's bothering him most in this confession, like it matters more than the fact that he changed his deal or that he's losing his memories, that this is where it's all gone wrong. ] I didn't tell you what was happening to me and you — you almost died for me, Marta.
[ and there it is, the crack in his attempt to speak calmly, distraught in his eyes as he leans forward towards her, using his own finger now to point at himself, like hers wasn't enough, his voice raising slightly. ]
My fate's been sealed and you still risked yourself for me. After everything else, I can't go on losing you too! I —
[ it's more than he means to say. biting his tongue, he falls silent for a moment, straightening up and collecting himself before speaking up again, a little more quietly. ]
You once told me you'd hold on to hope in my place. But if it also means you get hurt in my place too, I ... I can't let you do that for me. Please.
no subject
she really doesn't know how to feel about the fact that the one to cause it is her. ]
Am I supposed to be mad at you because you didn't tell me the whole truth? [ in direct response to his growing intensity, she sobers up and her voice softens. ] Is that supposed to make a difference? Like I wouldn't have still done what I did?
[ before anything else, before he goes on to put yet another weight on his shoulders, he has to know: ]
I don't regret what I did. Just like I know you don't regret doing what you did for Clara.
[ she has always been honest, and sometimes to a fault. sometimes at the expense of herself, in revealing feelings she won't yet name, ones she hasn't even really allowed herself to think too long on, but airing it all out there for anyone to make the connections themselves.
later, later, she'll think back on this and be rightfully horrified. she'll recognize the selfishness in herself, for standing firm where he clearly wants her to waver. certainly, it would be easier that way, wouldn't it? to let him make his peace and slip back into the den of solitude and loneliness he had prepared for himself. and maybe before, she would have, but now she's grown greedy.
(in a way, it's kind of poetic. thanks to him, she's learned to want a little harder for herself.)
she lets out a huff of a laugh, exasperated. ]
Estúpido.
[ him. her. ]
Did you think you would mean any less to me, if I knew how much less of you there'd be?
no subject
when it all does finally still, where even his breath seems to catch in his throat, it's when she says the things he doesn't expect, the things he'd rather not hear and, yet, latches onto them like he'd been so starved for it.
he watches her with a lasting silence, though his eyes scream out so much — surprise, relief, worry — everything at once like he's battling in himself how to feel over those words, undeserving of it and yet wanting to hold onto them without ever letting go.
it's the feeling he'd felt in that bar, the one that was ready to breathe her in and nothing else. ]
I didn't want you to care about me.
[ a quiet honesty that's not meant to judge her on how she might feel, silent again for a moment after before he takes a light step forward, closer to her. ]
When this started — [ he realizes as soon as he says it, the strangeness of those words. when this started. this, like what they are could be embodied in any sort of definition. ] I was only thinking of myself. I was selfish and I didn't think —
[ that anyone would care about me. that you would care about me. not like this.
he swallows, lump thick in his throat. raising his fingers, he grazes the tips light against her cheek, like he's resistant to giving in too much. ]
One of these days, I might wake up and not remember any of this. Everything we did, everything we said — just gone. I don't want the day to come where you see me looking at you any differently than the way I am now.
no subject
right now, it's like he isn't even trying to hold anything back. or maybe he's simply too tired to be able to. too raw and beaten, broken hands grasping at a hope too delicate to stay still.
she's wondered before: how would it feel to look at him and see a different face staring back? now he's got her fearing something else entirely — a familiar face holding an unfamiliar look. honestly? it sounds terrifying. but he's been brave for her before; the least she could do is be brave for him in turn.
carefully, she lifts a hand to settle it right behind his, letting her fingers slot and lace in the spaces left between his. fitting their pieces together. ]
It might happen.
[ her voice is gentle, but that's a reality that would be foolish to ignore. and despite it all, even if they both have their own separate ways to go about it, they're both still realists. a deal is a deal. and by now they both know how cruel these orbs can truly be. ]
But just because you forget, doesn't mean it has to be lost to you forever.
[ she leaves his side for a moment, moving to the table beside the bed to look through its drawer. it doesn't take her long to find what she's been trying to look for since he'd mentioned his plight earlier, holding the pen up between them when she reclaims her place before him. ]
You can write your story, Takeshi. Who said the ending has to be a sad one?
no subject
but marta has the tactics for scratching and digging out more. with her, it's never about living in a fantasy, in dodging the truth for something prettier; she cuts him raw with every word, and in the past few months, it's forced him to turn and face exactly what he's been running from, from the memories he's losing, from the choice he's made to discard his own life entirely. she never even had to know the truth for her to point him in that direction.
and even now as he paints her the harshness of what could ultimately happen, what prevents him from wanting to give too much of himself away, she doesn't pretend otherwise.
for him, hope was always the idea of a joke, of wishing for something that can't exist. in marta's world, it's peeling back the dirty layers of the real world to find the little spaces in between of everything broken and taking hold of what's not.
he watches her move away and return with that pen in her hand, brows knitting with confusion at the move until she spells it a bit more clearly, his expression soon softening with the realization of what she's suggesting. ]
It's not going to be up to me.
[ it's a minor attempt to keep fighting, albeit a weaker one as his shoulders slouch, watching her eyes with an attentive, understanding stare. because she's not wrong. there's still a way for him to hold on, even if he doesn't want to rely on it. ]
Are you ... sure you still want to be a part of it?
[ a part of his story. the one with the ending not yet written. ]
no subject
but maybe that's not the point here. maybe he's asking not because her answer isn't clear, but because he'd never had the chance to ask before. that people already left, before he could even form the words.
so maybe, right now, it's more important what he wants. what he still gets to decide.
to know that, despite everything, there are still some things he can control. ]
It's your story, Takeshi.
[ there are some people he gets to ask to stay. ]
Are you asking me to be?
no subject
since when has he ever really been in charge of his own story? whether it's pulling the trigger on his father or turning his back on ctac or standing with the envoys, the world has always moved him along with each step, pulling him one way or another until he's left with nothing but inevitable choices. any decision he's made for himself has never been made to last, everything he's wanted has never stayed.
— why would it start now?
but she's giving him the choice here, with her hand held out, pen clenched within her fingers, and she isn't shaking on her question.
his eyes linger on her without knowing for how long, knowing what awaits him with this deal, knowing what he may be dragging her further into, knowing that she now knows it all too. he's still looking at her when he reaches to curl his fingers around the pen and around her knuckles, holding both at once. ]
Yeah.
[ he finally answers, spoken like a sigh. she's giving him the choice, but his gaze still looks to her like he's still asking the question in his every word. like he needs her to know she still has an out. ]
I ... want you with me. [ whatever that means, he doesn't know. he takes a step closer, quiet in his breath. ] Whatever happens to me after all of this, I'd want you there.
no subject
was her place beside him as temporary as their stay?
maybe it might have been, once. but not now, not when he holds her hand, meets her eyes, tells her what he wants. what he lets himself want, for once. ]
I'll be there. [ emotion floods her voice, makes it thick. relief, joy, anticipation. ] Wherever you need me, prometo.
[ this close, it's so very easy to draw him into the circle of her arms. after nights spent huddled together for warmth, listening to the sound of each other's heartbeats for lullabies, it feels only natural to wrap her arms around him now, to rise up on her tiptoes and thread one hand into his hair.
i'm here, the squeeze of her arms promise. i'm here i'm here i'm here.
by his ear, without the weight of his eyes on her to make her shy, she confesses, ]
I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
no subject
rei, quell, clara — they either left or were taken. living longer than one should, you get used to the idea of impermanence.
but with marta circling her arms around him, holding him in close to her, he finds himself wanting to pretend this won't be like the rest, that it won't go wrong, that he won't lose her. that'll be a change for you, he can almost hear quell say, but her voice is drowned out by the gentle one at his ear, the one that draws him in to sink his face against the crook of her neck.
nothing else leaves his own mouth, bringing his arms around her, one hand splaying against her back as the other one still clutches the pen she's handed him. instead, he holds her, his sigh calm and slow against her skin, and lets himself believe she really isn't going anywhere. ]