[ less suspicious and more curious about what she's being so damn weird about. so he does ultimately open up his window after a moment, except instead of his hand, he sticks out his whole head to see if he can catch a peek at her through the darkness. ]
[ he will find a small figure, huddled under a thick cardigan and an even thicker knit blanket. she turns at the sound of the open window but any brief flare of hope dies when she finds it is several floors up. too high to continue this conversation with actual words, but hopefully not high enough she can't make the climb... you scale one trellis, you scale them all, right? ]
I stepped out for a minute and the doors locked on me.
[ honestly, the locking doors have him plenty curious and if it weren't for the fact that he's sure he'd get himself locked right now too, he'd probably investigate it a bit more. there's still more about this kidnapping situation to look into.
right now, though, the current predicament is that poor little nurse left out in the cold. he sighs when he spots her, sending one more text, ]
think i saw a trampoline on the yard earlier if you need the boost.
[ this is where he'd make a joke about letting down his hair for her, if he'd ever actually read about rapunzel. instead he just leans his arms against the frame, studying her closely to see how she strategizes this. ]
[ fortunately for marta, she has had time to reconcile the fact she'd have an audience for this while she debated actually texting him. (it was a short debate; she hasn't any clue who else might have been on her floor, and reaching out to the person her own room is connected to just made the most sense.) does that make any of this less aggravating? no. is she any more reassured this will actually work? also no. but at least if she falls to her death, she'd have a witness....... for all the good that would do.
phone tucked into the pocket of her pajama pants, marta considers the trellis closest to the now-open window. under the moonlight, he might be able to see the unhappy purse of her lips, the deep furrow of her brow. could there have been an easier way to get back to her room than this? probably. but the solution refuses to reveal itself to her, and her fingers have already begun to feel stiff from the cold.
she takes it one step at a time. one foot, then the other. the stiffness in her fingers don't help to give her a good grip around the wood, but the vines are sturdy she chances pulling herself up a few feet on those alone.
by the time she makes it up to the window, she looks little more than a haggard, drowned rat. her hair has matted itself to her face, both from the sweat of exertion and the chill clinging to the air giving everything a frost light enough it quickly melts away. her hand slaps noisily against the window sill, drawing on the last reserves of her strength to finally heft herself over and in. ]
Don't laugh, [ she grunts, but all the sharpness of her warning is punched out by the low whine of the last of her breath leaving her. ]
[ he can't really say he's lacking entertainment with the demonstration she presents when she snags a grip of the wood and starts to ascend, observing her technique as he imagines in his own mind how he'd approach the climb. considering she doesn't fall, that's impressive enough already, especially since he'd actually probably feel pretty guilty if she suddenly went crashing backwards to her death — even if this is hardly his idea.
despite the respect he has for her determination, he does wait until she's close enough to the window for him to reach his hand around her arm, helping to ease her up now that she's likely at the point of losing strength. it's enough to ease her up over the window sill until she's safely on her feet, his hands instinctively landing on her shoulders to help keep her steady if she needs a minute to catch her breath.
the room itself is likely no different from marta's own, still bearing most of the standard preselected furniture and setup, save for a few wrinkled shirts tossed over a chair, a pink bag bearing a bright childish unicorn design on a desk, and an ash tray with quite a few cigarette butts crushed inside. kovacs himself is in a half-state of dress, shirt missing to reveal a large selection of scars and well-formed muscle, but luckily (or unluckily) for marta, his dark pants from the day remain on. ]
Not laughing. [ even if there's a twist of his lips that threatens a smirk, mostly because he's actually impressed at her daring alternative for getting back inside. ] Just wasn't expecting that level of upper arm strength outta you.
[ after a moment, his noise wrinkles, suddenly catching a whiff that smells less like his own cigarettes and something far woodier and thick. ]
[ no one is more surprised than marta that she made it up there on her own. it's a far reach from the second-story climb she had to make on the thrombey estate, the trellis almost seeming to elongate the closer she thought she was getting to the end. in retrospect, engaging in such a physically-demanding activity immediately after what she'd been doing that necessitated being outdoors in the first place was a very, very poor idea indeed.
that's why she's grateful for the last bit of help he offers once she finally reaches the window, breaths almost coming out as a wheeze during that last heave-ho. she doesn't stumble, thankfully, but it doesn't really make much of a difference when, seconds after steadying herself back on her feet, she grunts out a, ]
Me too.
[ and half-buckles, half-stoops herself back down on the ground. maybe it's a little rude, helping herself to a seat on his bedroom floor, but she just needs a minute. maybe too.
when he makes note of her scent, it takes her a second to even realize what he's referring to. by now, the smoke has seeped into the knit of her blanket and sweater, wound its way in the messy low-bun of her hair.
after a second, she digs out the culprit from her pocket — an unbranded cigar, freshly used. considering the man practically bathes in his cigarettes, she doubts he would mind all that much. ]
I found a box of them in my room.
[ tucked inside a drawer, beneath a number of unmentionables that are suspiciously her size. ]
[ he's not going to judge her about needing to immediately settle down on the floor, easing back to let her take a moment to herself as he studies her to make sure her breath is leveled enough that she isn't going to suddenly pass out in his room. the cigar scent caught between her hair and threads of fabric proves a little more distracting, ultimately, by the time she seems safe enough, folding his arms with his question. the stance in his present body probably carries too much of an air of intimidation, even when he's not even interrogating, the question posed more with amused curiosity than anything.
when she slips one out, evidence of its recent use in its fizzled out end, he huffs up a breath that nearly comes out like a chuckle. ]
So that's your vice, huh? [ between the climb and the cigars, she's carrying in plenty of her surprises. while he speaks, he works his way over to the dresser that's been turned into a makeshift bar with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a few stolen glasses, turning two over upright and tilting the bottle to pour in some of the liquor. ] Explains your little rebellious escape. Could have just opened the window, though. [ after filling part of the way, he holds it up in her direction in question. ] Hydrate?
I didn't want the smell in the room, [ comes her easy answer, but the whole of it is a little more complicated than that. part of the comfort of the cigars came in the memories, in the line of uncles sitting along the sidewalk or porch, smoking the sun down while aunts gossiped in the living room. the smell wafted and lingered, but only ever on the outskirts, and so if it was to be proper nostalgia at all it couldn't ever cling to anything more than her clothes, her hair. it couldn't be anything more than fleeting. ]
Is whiskey yours?
[ she could, of course, correct him and remind him that alcohol would actually do the opposite of hydrating anyone, but the house is steadily proving itself to be a hotpot of all her worst vices — cigars, alcohol... half-clothed men.
(she notices now, of course, now that she's got more of her breath back. she doesn't stare, perhaps pointedly so, always keeping him in the fringes of direct eyesight, which may or may not be just as obvious (if not more so) than actual overt staring. he doesn't seem at all bothered, and she is determined to follow his cue on that.)
holding out a hand, she accepts his offer with a half-smile. the call of her bedroom is a distant thing in the face of a new, suitable distraction. she still hasn't quite gotten used to the softness of those pillows, the fine feel of the sheets' threadcount. in many ways, she's grateful for it — it would feel some kind of betrayal to the life she left behind to get comfortable — but it certainly doesn't make for easier nights. ]
[ kovacs clearly doesn't feel the same sentiment about the scent of the smoke, since he hasn't done much in refraining from smoking in his own room plenty, windows typically closed when he does so since he isn't too concerned about its lingering presence. mostly, he's indifferent to it, since he wouldn't consider himself an addict in most sleeves he's paired into; elias ryker has proven to be one of the heavier ones, but kovacs does find a sort of comfort in keeping his hands frequently busy, already used to the muscle memory of popping open a cigarette box and pulling out a stick, this thumbs calloused from the frequent flick of the lighter.
is whiskey yours, he smirks at the question, since he doubts there's much of a limit to how many vices he actually carries. the fact that alcohol does nothing for hydration isn't lost on him, but then, he isn't the nurse in the room, looking for logical cures. he just finds the easiest ones, temporary as they are.
he steps over further enough to pass the filled glass over into her hand before he returns to the dresser to pour one for himself. instead of abandoning the bottle there, still carrying some whiskey even as it nears the bottle, he takes it in hand, along with his glass as he returns to her once more, lowering himself down onto the floor a short ways in front of her, legs outstretched to the side as he sets the bottle down between them. ]
Alright. [ he takes a sip of his drink, letting it burn against his lips for a moment before turning his eyes to her. ] So why'd you really go outside?
[ she doesn't expect him to join her where she is on the floor, unknowingly beginning to take root even though her mind has been attempting to remind her there is a perfectly good bed back in her own room. he looks like he's settling down, and it feels almost rude now to feign propriety and excuse herself.
she drops her eyes to the burnt gold of her drink, lips twisting against the pull of her heart for a home too far away. ]
Do you have holidays where you're from, Takeshi Kovacs?
[ she's getting a little better, learning not to treat anything as a given these days. ]
They're days meant to celebrate or commemorate something. Usually a past event or, or a general sentiment.
[ she's sounding more wistful than she means to be, but he had asked for honesty and marta has never known how to give anything but. ]
Right around now, when it starts getting colder and the nights start getting longer, we would be celebrating the holidays meant for family.
[ she lifts the cigar again, idly spinning it between her thumb and forefinger. ]
I don't really smoke, but I had uncles who did. They were never allowed to do it inside, so it wouldn't have really felt right unless it smelled a little like the wind, too.
[ she eventually sets the cigar down on the floor just before her crossed legs, opting instead to curl both her hands around the glass she finally brings up to her lips. ]
I guess the smell just reminds me of simpler times.
[ though he knows the concept of holidays well enough, he doesn't interrupt her to to say so, listening to her with a respective silence that acknowledges there's a line between the sentiment and the answer to his question and gives her the room to get there at a thoughtful pace. asshole that he often is, he's at least never been a terrible listener.
he lets her sit with her memory, gaze lingering on her even as her fingers play distractedly with the cigar, letting it carry in a lasting silence.
and then he speaks again, ]
My father didn't like holidays. Least he never encouraged it. But ... there was an old man down at the market, used to sell these fireworks — long out of style, some remnants from Earth long brought over. No one cared to buy them, too much work to set them off, so they ran cheap. I'd try to make a few credits to get a few, take them down to the beach to ring in the new year — my sister liked the sparks.
[ his eyes stare off to a corner of the floor, tilting the glass in his hand in slow circles as he recalls rei's beaming smile. ]
And I liked the smell. Crisp, burnt smoke, mingled with the salt of the water in the air. The way the spark would go off, give off that colored light, only for a second, but the smoke just lingered there, like gunpowder in rain. Noting like the standard synthetic lighting that was common use. This was raw and aged and real.
[ he's not sure he'd call it simpler times, but there's an understanding in the craving of that smell, in rei's smile by the beach before they returned to listen to their mother's cries and the blunt force of their father's fists.
he raises the glass to his lips, taking a sip as he steps back out of the memory and returns his eyes to marta. ]
It's all temporary. This place. You'll get back to those cigars.
[ the glass remains by her lips, hovering just a hair's breath away from full contact, frozen in place when he starts to speak. she hadn't expected him to give her much — this wasn't like the chapel, forced into a small space with little else to do but trade confessions to pass the time — but she's no less welcoming of it when he gives.
like that day in the chapel, she tries again to picture his world. dark and bright at the same time, some advanced technological colony on a different planet, different moon. she can't help but picture hover cars, bright neon lights and aliens of different shapes and sizes. she doesn't even know how much of those would be accurate, if any at all.
somehow, picturing him with a sister (younger, she assumes, from the protective, familiar way his words curl around that word) feels the greater feat. ]
Temporary, [ she repeats, as if putting more voice to it will make it any more real. as if any of them are any closer to figuring this all out and getting out of there. she lets herself smile at the thought, holding the glass back out again to lift in a toast. she can drink to that. ]
[ he doesn't need to share in anything, nothing compelling or making him obligated to say more than he intends to, but her talk of smells summons the memory on its own, a draw to the past miles and years away from where they are. except in his case, he knows there's no return to it, that those nights in harlan's world with his sister as she was died long before she did. that part can be left out of his story.
it seems to help whatever tension it is that marta's holding from the stress that's placed her, at least, as he catches the perk of a smile as she takes to the drink. ]
Salud.
[ he repeats, following her approach to the toast as he raises his own glass to mirror hers, and downing the rest of the drink in it with relative ease. with a lick of his lips, his eyes peer at the single remaining drop of liquid at the bottom of the cup before reaching back for the bottle. ]
Until then, you might wanna ease up on all the window climbing. Can't let you get in the habit of all these late night calls.
[ his light admonishment punches out a short huff of laughter from marta — almost a chuckle, if there were any more mirth to it. ]
I'll keep it to a more reasonable hour next time.
[ from the wryness of her tone, it's clear she's hoping just as much as he likely is that there is no next time. as surprisingly pleasant as the evening turned out being, she's hardly the type of person to impose herself on someone else if she can help it.
all this to say — she isn't looking to wear out her welcome. one last deep swig of the remaining contents of her glass and then she's pushing herself up onto her feet, dragging her blanket a little more firmly around her shoulders. his room is an exact mirror opposite to hers — she's got an exact duplicate of this drawer pushed up along the same wall that would lead into the bathroom, but notably without the bar crafted on top of it.
this she approaches, reaching out to set her empty glass right there where it had been prior to his pouring. there, her gaze snags on a neatly folded handkerchief, its embroidered letters tucked away into its folds as if on purpose. the corner of her mouth draws up, amused despite herself. ]
Try not to stay up too late. You wouldn't want to miss breakfast, [ she says, with the same sort of seriousness as he had his own words. (that is to say, none at all.) she leaves the handkerchief where it rests, moving instead to tug open the bathroom door. thankfully, it opens to the right place. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ less suspicious and more curious about what she's being so damn weird about. so he does ultimately open up his window after a moment, except instead of his hand, he sticks out his whole head to see if he can catch a peek at her through the darkness. ]
no subject
I stepped out for a minute and the doors locked on me.
[ she's getting really fucking tired of doors doing that. ]
Stay outside, I don't trust this house not to move you once I start climbing.
no subject
right now, though, the current predicament is that poor little nurse left out in the cold. he sighs when he spots her, sending one more text, ]
think i saw a trampoline on the yard earlier if you need the boost.
[ this is where he'd make a joke about letting down his hair for her, if he'd ever actually read about rapunzel. instead he just leans his arms against the frame, studying her closely to see how she strategizes this. ]
no subject
phone tucked into the pocket of her pajama pants, marta considers the trellis closest to the now-open window. under the moonlight, he might be able to see the unhappy purse of her lips, the deep furrow of her brow. could there have been an easier way to get back to her room than this? probably. but the solution refuses to reveal itself to her, and her fingers have already begun to feel stiff from the cold.
she takes it one step at a time. one foot, then the other. the stiffness in her fingers don't help to give her a good grip around the wood, but the vines are sturdy she chances pulling herself up a few feet on those alone.
by the time she makes it up to the window, she looks little more than a haggard, drowned rat. her hair has matted itself to her face, both from the sweat of exertion and the chill clinging to the air giving everything a frost light enough it quickly melts away. her hand slaps noisily against the window sill, drawing on the last reserves of her strength to finally heft herself over and in. ]
Don't laugh, [ she grunts, but all the sharpness of her warning is punched out by the low whine of the last of her breath leaving her. ]
no subject
despite the respect he has for her determination, he does wait until she's close enough to the window for him to reach his hand around her arm, helping to ease her up now that she's likely at the point of losing strength. it's enough to ease her up over the window sill until she's safely on her feet, his hands instinctively landing on her shoulders to help keep her steady if she needs a minute to catch her breath.
the room itself is likely no different from marta's own, still bearing most of the standard preselected furniture and setup, save for a few wrinkled shirts tossed over a chair, a pink bag bearing a bright childish unicorn design on a desk, and an ash tray with quite a few cigarette butts crushed inside. kovacs himself is in a half-state of dress, shirt missing to reveal a large selection of scars and well-formed muscle, but luckily (or unluckily) for marta, his dark pants from the day remain on. ]
Not laughing. [ even if there's a twist of his lips that threatens a smirk, mostly because he's actually impressed at her daring alternative for getting back inside. ] Just wasn't expecting that level of upper arm strength outta you.
[ after a moment, his noise wrinkles, suddenly catching a whiff that smells less like his own cigarettes and something far woodier and thick. ]
You ... been hanging around old men out there?
no subject
that's why she's grateful for the last bit of help he offers once she finally reaches the window, breaths almost coming out as a wheeze during that last heave-ho. she doesn't stumble, thankfully, but it doesn't really make much of a difference when, seconds after steadying herself back on her feet, she grunts out a, ]
Me too.
[ and half-buckles, half-stoops herself back down on the ground. maybe it's a little rude, helping herself to a seat on his bedroom floor, but she just needs a minute. maybe too.
when he makes note of her scent, it takes her a second to even realize what he's referring to. by now, the smoke has seeped into the knit of her blanket and sweater, wound its way in the messy low-bun of her hair.
after a second, she digs out the culprit from her pocket — an unbranded cigar, freshly used. considering the man practically bathes in his cigarettes, she doubts he would mind all that much. ]
I found a box of them in my room.
[ tucked inside a drawer, beneath a number of unmentionables that are suspiciously her size. ]
no subject
when she slips one out, evidence of its recent use in its fizzled out end, he huffs up a breath that nearly comes out like a chuckle. ]
So that's your vice, huh? [ between the climb and the cigars, she's carrying in plenty of her surprises. while he speaks, he works his way over to the dresser that's been turned into a makeshift bar with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a few stolen glasses, turning two over upright and tilting the bottle to pour in some of the liquor. ] Explains your little rebellious escape. Could have just opened the window, though. [ after filling part of the way, he holds it up in her direction in question. ] Hydrate?
no subject
Is whiskey yours?
[ she could, of course, correct him and remind him that alcohol would actually do the opposite of hydrating anyone, but the house is steadily proving itself to be a hotpot of all her worst vices — cigars, alcohol... half-clothed men.
(she notices now, of course, now that she's got more of her breath back. she doesn't stare, perhaps pointedly so, always keeping him in the fringes of direct eyesight, which may or may not be just as obvious (if not more so) than actual overt staring. he doesn't seem at all bothered, and she is determined to follow his cue on that.)
holding out a hand, she accepts his offer with a half-smile. the call of her bedroom is a distant thing in the face of a new, suitable distraction. she still hasn't quite gotten used to the softness of those pillows, the fine feel of the sheets' threadcount. in many ways, she's grateful for it — it would feel some kind of betrayal to the life she left behind to get comfortable — but it certainly doesn't make for easier nights. ]
no subject
is whiskey yours, he smirks at the question, since he doubts there's much of a limit to how many vices he actually carries. the fact that alcohol does nothing for hydration isn't lost on him, but then, he isn't the nurse in the room, looking for logical cures. he just finds the easiest ones, temporary as they are.
he steps over further enough to pass the filled glass over into her hand before he returns to the dresser to pour one for himself. instead of abandoning the bottle there, still carrying some whiskey even as it nears the bottle, he takes it in hand, along with his glass as he returns to her once more, lowering himself down onto the floor a short ways in front of her, legs outstretched to the side as he sets the bottle down between them. ]
Alright. [ he takes a sip of his drink, letting it burn against his lips for a moment before turning his eyes to her. ] So why'd you really go outside?
no subject
she drops her eyes to the burnt gold of her drink, lips twisting against the pull of her heart for a home too far away. ]
Do you have holidays where you're from, Takeshi Kovacs?
[ she's getting a little better, learning not to treat anything as a given these days. ]
They're days meant to celebrate or commemorate something. Usually a past event or, or a general sentiment.
[ she's sounding more wistful than she means to be, but he had asked for honesty and marta has never known how to give anything but. ]
Right around now, when it starts getting colder and the nights start getting longer, we would be celebrating the holidays meant for family.
[ she lifts the cigar again, idly spinning it between her thumb and forefinger. ]
I don't really smoke, but I had uncles who did. They were never allowed to do it inside, so it wouldn't have really felt right unless it smelled a little like the wind, too.
[ she eventually sets the cigar down on the floor just before her crossed legs, opting instead to curl both her hands around the glass she finally brings up to her lips. ]
I guess the smell just reminds me of simpler times.
no subject
he lets her sit with her memory, gaze lingering on her even as her fingers play distractedly with the cigar, letting it carry in a lasting silence.
and then he speaks again, ]
My father didn't like holidays. Least he never encouraged it. But ... there was an old man down at the market, used to sell these fireworks — long out of style, some remnants from Earth long brought over. No one cared to buy them, too much work to set them off, so they ran cheap. I'd try to make a few credits to get a few, take them down to the beach to ring in the new year — my sister liked the sparks.
[ his eyes stare off to a corner of the floor, tilting the glass in his hand in slow circles as he recalls rei's beaming smile. ]
And I liked the smell. Crisp, burnt smoke, mingled with the salt of the water in the air. The way the spark would go off, give off that colored light, only for a second, but the smoke just lingered there, like gunpowder in rain. Noting like the standard synthetic lighting that was common use. This was raw and aged and real.
[ he's not sure he'd call it simpler times, but there's an understanding in the craving of that smell, in rei's smile by the beach before they returned to listen to their mother's cries and the blunt force of their father's fists.
he raises the glass to his lips, taking a sip as he steps back out of the memory and returns his eyes to marta. ]
It's all temporary. This place. You'll get back to those cigars.
no subject
like that day in the chapel, she tries again to picture his world. dark and bright at the same time, some advanced technological colony on a different planet, different moon. she can't help but picture hover cars, bright neon lights and aliens of different shapes and sizes. she doesn't even know how much of those would be accurate, if any at all.
somehow, picturing him with a sister (younger, she assumes, from the protective, familiar way his words curl around that word) feels the greater feat. ]
Temporary, [ she repeats, as if putting more voice to it will make it any more real. as if any of them are any closer to figuring this all out and getting out of there. she lets herself smile at the thought, holding the glass back out again to lift in a toast. she can drink to that. ]
Salud.
no subject
it seems to help whatever tension it is that marta's holding from the stress that's placed her, at least, as he catches the perk of a smile as she takes to the drink. ]
Salud.
[ he repeats, following her approach to the toast as he raises his own glass to mirror hers, and downing the rest of the drink in it with relative ease. with a lick of his lips, his eyes peer at the single remaining drop of liquid at the bottom of the cup before reaching back for the bottle. ]
Until then, you might wanna ease up on all the window climbing. Can't let you get in the habit of all these late night calls.
no subject
I'll keep it to a more reasonable hour next time.
[ from the wryness of her tone, it's clear she's hoping just as much as he likely is that there is no next time. as surprisingly pleasant as the evening turned out being, she's hardly the type of person to impose herself on someone else if she can help it.
all this to say — she isn't looking to wear out her welcome. one last deep swig of the remaining contents of her glass and then she's pushing herself up onto her feet, dragging her blanket a little more firmly around her shoulders. his room is an exact mirror opposite to hers — she's got an exact duplicate of this drawer pushed up along the same wall that would lead into the bathroom, but notably without the bar crafted on top of it.
this she approaches, reaching out to set her empty glass right there where it had been prior to his pouring. there, her gaze snags on a neatly folded handkerchief, its embroidered letters tucked away into its folds as if on purpose. the corner of her mouth draws up, amused despite herself. ]
Try not to stay up too late. You wouldn't want to miss breakfast, [ she says, with the same sort of seriousness as he had his own words. (that is to say, none at all.) she leaves the handkerchief where it rests, moving instead to tug open the bathroom door. thankfully, it opens to the right place. ]