[ she hasn't seen marcos since they were dragged forcibly from their fantasy of a happy home, a happier relationship. if asked, bobbi would still maintain that she prefers an imperfect reality to a perfect lie, but — it's hard, knowing that it wasn't real.
it felt real.
(is this how hunter felt, not knowing?)
she had feelings for marcos. they didn't develop naturally, but she still remembers the wealth and depth of what she'd felt for him, how overwhelmingly wonderful it had been to know and trust and love him.
he's been avoiding her. to be fair, she's been avoiding him, too, telling herself it's just until she figures out what it is she feels, how to best handle it. there's no guidebook for this; she never pretended to be in love with him. this wasn't some undercover op she was running. she could deal with that, but she doesn't know how to handle her own emotions now.
so she works longer hours.
unfortunately for their mutual avoidance, so does he — and it means that when she lets herself into the apartment particularly late one evening, he isn't out or in bed. he's in the kitchen, barely outlined by the light coming in through the window from one of the neon advertisements across the street. bobbi can just about make out that there's a bottle near his hand.
for a moment, she doesn't move. for a moment, she considers making an attempt to sneak into her room. she could get past him quietly enough, but there's no way he missed her opening the door and coming in.
(he'd let her pretend, she thinks.)
bobbi morse is a lot of things, but she's never considered herself a coward. so, quietly, not reaching for the light switch either, because some things are easier in the dark: ]
Hey.
[ they can't keep avoiding each other forever. they can't keep avoiding this forever. ]
[ he'd wondered, when he'd heard the door open, if she'd just keep walking. would she stop by the kitchen and see him there and do anything or would she slip into her bedroom like they'd both been doing for the past little while, pretending that the other didn't live there?
he doesn't know which one he's hoping for. he doesn't know what to say. there's a lifetime's worth of memories shoved into his head and there are feelings that are still swirling in his chest and he doesn't know if they're real or if they're residual and he doesn't know what to say to her.
apologize? ignore it like it hadn't happened? but it had and they can't. so, when he hears her footfalls get closer and stop, he knows she's there but he doesn't turn. he waits an waits until she says something and then, he straightens and looks back over his shoulder.
it's dark but he can see here there, brightened by the lights from outside. she's been working late just like he is and tonight, those late nights have meant they're home at the same time and they're both awake. ]
Hey.
[ he turns a bit, resting a hip against the counter and staring out the window at the garish neon sign that's nearby. ]
You're back late.
[ home late? is that too...familiar? too much like they'd been a few days ago? he blows out a quiet breath.
he reaches for the bottle and then a glass, pouring some amber liquid out and taking a few sips. strong but not so strong that he winces. ]
[ she's tired. she could hide that. she could easily find a way to manipulate this situation toward the outcome she wants — but that would require knowing what outcome she wants. part of her wants to pretend it never happened. part of her wants what they had back.
in the end, she doesn't try to hide the exhaustion in the lines of her shoulders. (she died and now she's alive and that has nothing to do with any of this, but it doesn't make this easier.) he knows that she's a spy; he knew even before their fantastical relationship. she wonders if he'll think that the exhaustion she's showing is manipulation, too. he wouldn't have while they thought they were married.
he pours himself a drink and bobbi hesitates for a moment before taking a step closer, letting herself lean against the doorframe. ]
Are you willing to share?
[ the drink. the same space, for a moment. he could say no and she'd leave and they'd go back to awkwardly avoiding each other.
[ he nods, pulling his eyes away from the window and finally looking at her. he can tell she's tired. whether that's from work or from avoiding him or a combination of both, he doesn't know.
but, he knows (remembers?) that if she didn't want to show him something, she wouldn't. so, the fact that he can tell is saying something.
in answer to her question, he reaches for another glass and settles it on the counter. ] I'm willing. I don't know what it is. I picked it up on the way here.
[ he reaches for another glass even before he answers with words and bobbi feels — some measure of relief. she still lingers in the doorway a moment longer until he's poured and only then moves closer to him.
the instinct to keep moving into his space, to fit herself against him, is there. she knows that they fit together, now. she knows just how well they fit.
it costs effort to stay at a reasonable distance. ]
I won't blame you if it's awful. [ she forces her tone into lightness, but it's only a temporary measure of avoidance. they can't keep dancing around this forever. (they probably could.)
she takes the glass and takes a sip, forcing herself not to wince when she feels it go down her throat, sharp and strong.
then she swallows. ]
Marcos-
[ god, she used to say his name and it meant so much. now, she finds herself at a loss. ]
[ she comes closer and what feels like a thousand memorie flit through his head. of her being close, of pressing his face into her hair, of holding her and having her hold him. she comes closer and then she stops and he shifts from one foot to another, awkward and uncomfortable.
they drink in silence which...just draws out the discomfort. he tries to fill it by pouring himself another glass. there's the thought of just bidding her goodnight, slipping out and going to bed and dragging this out another day.
he coughs and starts to do just that when she says his name and it stops him cold. ]
We don't — [ don't what? he has nothing planned here. he downs another helping of the strong liquid and drops the glass onto the counter. ] We don't have to.
[ talk about it? think about it? remember it? he doesn't know. ]
[ bobbi doesn't swallow the noise that escapes at his we don't in time, something that's half a question and half a cough, a little startled, a hint of protest thrown in.
they don't have to. whatever it is, they don't have to — but what's the alternative?
she takes a larger swallow of the drink, closing her eyes for a moment. she's tired and the certainty that before, she could have walked into his space and set her head against his shoulder and he would have held her and kissed her until the tiredness faded or they could've carried it together is almost overwhelming.
she wants to tell him about dying. she wants to tell him that she loves him — but is that still true? is the feeling going to fade, like the blue glow and the sense of serenity? ]
I think we do.
[ they can't keep dancing around this, avoiding this entirely. ]
[ marcos knows that it would be easier to just avoid it. he doesn't think she'd stop him if he walked past her and disappeared into his room. but, what good would that do? it would hurt her, it would leave everything in the air between them and he'd be the one drawing this out, making it so nothing could be settled, solved, or discussed.
the would go on being...he doesn't know. they'd been friends before this but what were they now? ]
Yeah. [ he exhales the word, eyes on the counter, on his hand braced against the counter. on the glass and the bottle and the floor. ] All right.
[ he still doesn't know what to say though but he grabs the bottle and his glass and pushes away from the counter. ]
Let's sit down.
[ at the table, on the couch, he just doesn't want to do this standing up in the kitchen. ]
[ he pushes away from the counter and bobbi isn't moving yet, so it brings them closer for a moment before she takes a step back and heads for the living room and the couch. she doesn't let her breath hitch at the momentary proximity, doesn't let herself react in any way.
(sitting at the table feels too - stiff. too much like a negotiation. the couch is where they'd watched a movie, where they'd cuddled and joked with one another and been relaxed and comfortable in each other's space before all this, before heated kisses and slow love-making and a lifetime of loving one another.
it feels both more solid and infinitely more dangerous, but bobbi's never been good at playing things entirely safe.)
once on the couch, she turns to him, curling one leg beneath her body, leaving herself open to him. it's only partially deliberate, the rest is instinct. ]
Are you okay?
[ she asks after a moment of just looking at him, looking down at her glass instead. she can guess the answer, but it's a starting point, at least. ]
[ she chooses the couch. it's not the same couch they'd sat on when they'd been together in that other life, when he'd kissed her in a way that led to the bedroom, to her breath in his ear, to her legs around him and to a night filled with memories that were incredibly vivid. it wasn't a daydream, it wasn't a fantasy.
those two people had been the same two people that were sitting on this couch right now. different but the same. if it had just been a physical relationship, he thinks he'd be able to deal with it a little better but it had been a relationship that encompassed everything.
he leaves the light off in the living room, letting ambient light from outside filter in before he takes a seat, leaving some space between them. the bottle gets placed on the coffee table and he sits back, slightly turned towards her. ]
Not really.
[ the truth slips out before he can bury it down. he's not okay. he's upset and he's angry (not with her) and he hates that just as he was starting to recover from one thing, another came along and smacked him. ]
You?
[ they were talking. it was...superficial but it was more than they'd been doing. ]
[ not really confirms what she'd been suspecting. people who are okay don't avoid their home this much, don't avoid the person they were married to in some fantasy that was nonetheless real. she lets herself reach for the bottle, refilling her not yet empty glass before she looks at him.
the lack of light in the apartment makes it hard to make out his features, although her eyes are getting used to the low light now. maybe it's better this way, less sharp. ]
I will be.
[ for him, the truth had slipped out. for her, it's a conscious choice to let it escape. there's an admission in the words that she's not okay, but there's quiet confidence, too. she isn't okay right now, between what they had and dying, but she can handle it.
she'll be all right, even if she isn't right now. ]
It's - weird, isn't it? [ her expression shifts a little, tone lowering over weird because that's an understatement, really. but it's vague enough to cover what she means without really saying anything at all. ]
[ another word was confusing. another word was chaotic. he swallows and gives his glass a wiggle, watching the liquid slosh back and forth before he sighs and shakes his head. ]
It's weird. [ the words are low but the agreement is sincere. ] I'm —
[ he doesn't know exactly what to say. he wants to apologize but it hadn't been his fault. he hadn't caused that fantasy land to fold them both into it. they'd been in love, been married, had a kid, had a family.
his fingers twitch almost with the want of reaching across to her and tangling his fingers with hers. this is...this is hard. ]
I'm not sure what to do. [ that was complete and utter honesty. ]
[ she sees the way his fingers twitch and bobbi's good enough at reading people that she can guess at the reason. admittedly, it's not just because she's good at reading people; there's also the fact that she has to stop herself from leaning into his space, from curling against him.
the fact that they'd curled up together on this very couch before everything that happened in zerzura, the fact that she remembers kissing him under the mistletoe as much as she remembers kissing him over and over again in the home they'd shared, husband and wife, that doesn't make this easier. there's warmth in her cheeks that she thinks the darkness will hide. she's glad for that, at least. ]
Yeah, same.
[ that, at least, is easy to admit.
she swallows. he hadn't caused the fantasy to enfold them. she hadn't, either. now the fantasy is broken, but they both still have all those memories of loving each other, of having chosen each other. ]
You're not -
[ no, let her start over. ]
You don't owe me anything.
[ she's not sure if he'd think that he would, unconsciously if not consciously, but even if he doesn't, it deserves being said out loud. they don't owe each other anything just because they were married in zerzura. she has no claim on him and he has no claim on her.
not unless they want that. not unless they make that choice again. ]
[ he realizes he's going to need to specify what he means by that considering the amount of questions and confusion between them. he rubs a hand against his chin, against his beard before clarifying: ]
Did you want a life like that, I mean? [ because he knows it's something he'd wanted for a long, long time. he'd thought he'd get it with lorna when she'd gotten pregnant but then she'd taken dawn away and she'd taken herself away too.
that hadn't dimmed his want for a life like that. he'd wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life with someone he loved and being a better father than his own father. ]
You don't owe me anything either. [ they'd been together in zerzura. they were...they were something here. ] I'm not sure what you're supposed to do with all this.
[ they'd been well on their way to close friends, here, bobbi thinks. she doesn't want to lose that because of zerzura. that's the only thing she's reasonably sure of. everything else is a jumbled mess, too many emotions pulling in too many different directions. ]
I used to be married. [ she says after a moment, looking down at her glass before looking back at marcos. ] We got divorced for a lot of reasons, but that I lie for a living was a big one.
[ not just that she lies for a living, but that she manipulates people and situations. that she'd lied to hunter, too. that it had all been for the greater good hadn't mattered, or hadn't mattered enough to make a difference.
it's not a direct answer to his question, but in a way, it is. she'd wanted what they had. part of her still wants it, especially now that she knows what it could have been like, could have felt like. (probably, she should have known it was an illusion. no real relationship could be that smooth, for all that she remembers the two of them fighting, too, that stable — certainly not if one party is a professional liar and the other knows it.)
to have a partner, to have someone who doesn't judge her for what she dies — that's something she wants. it isn't something she thinks she can have, not really.
bobbi lifts her shoulders in a little shrug, helplessly (and letting him see it). ] Did you?
[ she doesn't know what she's supposed to do with all this, either. what he's supposed to do with it. if there's anything to be done other than just moving forward. ]
My father turned me out when I was thirteen. Just...kicked me onto the streets of Colombia because I'm a mutant. He thought it meant I was touched by the devil or that I was the devil. I don't know.
[ he thinks he should tell her about dawn. about the daughter left behind, taken from him too soon, about the void that left behind but he doesn't know if he can do that and maintain composure after what they'd just come out of. ]
I did a lot of bad stuff to survive but even when I was doing that, I was still trying to help families stay together, to hide, to move especially if they were like me because I didn't want anyone else to be like me.
[ to be alone and desolate. to not know where your next meal was coming from or where you were going to sleep that night. he'd wanted to help families because he was certain he couldn't have one of his own. ] But, I guess I never really stopped wanting something like that for myself. The family I didn't have, people who — cared.
[ loved, he'd almost said. ] I just wanted a chance.
[ he talks — and bobbi wants nothing more than to reach out, to take his hand and squeeze. before zerzura, before all this, she would have done it without a second thought.
now, even just the idea of it feels dangerous. feels like it could be too much. and still, not offering some form of comfort feels wrong, too. for a moment, bobbi (who prides herself in being decisive and swift in her actions) is frozen by indecision. ]
I'm sorry.
[ she reaches out to touch his wrist, in the end, squeezing it briefly before letting to again. a compromise of sorts, but the touch still feels — more, somehow. more meaningful. maybe it's a question of awareness. before, touching him would have been more of an unthinking thing, now it's fraught with meaning, heavy with it.
[ it hadn't just been ripped away from him. their life, their happiness, their family, had been taken away at the whim of that place. they'd been enfolded into it and then, when that place had been done with them, they'd been forced out. he was hurting but he knows he's not alone.
he blows out a long, strained breath and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. he hasn't been sleeping well and he doubts she has either. or anyone who dealt with that shit. ]
I'm sorry that your husband — ex husband — wasn't comfortable with what you did. Do. I know a few things about doing a job that's dangerous and that sometimes means you keep things from the ones you love. It's not easy. But it doesn't mean you shouldn't be...cared for any less.
[ he doesn't know much about her former relationship but he does know her (especially now) and she deserved someone who would support her through it all. ]
[ it's easier for her to focus on him than it is to admit that she lost something, too. she lost a relationship that was as close to ideal as it gets, a husband who supported her despite knowing who she is and what she does. someone who trusted her because he knew the person she is.
(she also lost her life, in the end, but she's here, so did she really die?) ]
Thank you. [ she has to clear her throat before she can say as much. ] For saying that.
[ for having been there, at least in their fantasy.
she wouldn't presume that he'd be as forgiving in reality, irrespective of the fact that she wouldn't presume that they'd ever be in a relationship in reality.
it's not the sort of thing anyone should be presumptuous about.
bobbi reaches for her drink again, taking another sip. ]
[ it feels like the least he could do. it feels like he's doing nothing at all. they're still talking in stilted, strained sentences and things still feel tense. he watches her take a drink and looks down at his hands, picking at a nail on one finger just for something to do.
he lets the silence lengthen until it's uncomfortable, until it's heavy and suffocating. another burden for two people who were already shouldering a lot. marcos rubs a hand against the back of his neck, feeling at a loss. ]
Is this working? [ talking about it. are they doing it wrong? does it feel better to her? ] I don't — what are we doing wrong that it feels so hard still?
it really isn't funny. none of this is funny and it's actually awful, but at least she's not the only one feeling awkward. at least she's not the only one feeling — like the ground isn't quite solid. ]
I don't think we're doing anything wrong.
[ she forces herself to look at this as she would any other situation, to analyse it, the emotion involved. to consider all the angles and how she could manipulate things toward a particular outcome.
she still doesn't know what outcome she'd want, so as an exercise in taking control of this, it's useless — but at least it gives her some perspective. ]
It's -
We were married. [ and not the kind of marriage that meant sharing a name but having separate bedrooms but a solid and strong one — but she doesn't need to tell him that. he was there. he already knows. ]
And now we're not and we know that it wasn't - real. It still happened to us, though. I think it's going to be hard for a while.
[ she shakes her head a little, all laughter long faded, running a hand through her hair. ]
It wasn't really long enough to form habits, was it? But it feels like it was. [ it takes effort, now, not to lean into his space, not to kiss him.
it's so strange, looking at him and knowing what it's like to kiss him, what it feels like when he holds her, what it's like to wake up next to him. what it's like to share a life with him.
and to know that that's not their reality anymore. ]
It wasn't real but it felt real. I remember. [ he remember some things more sharply than others but he still remembers. he can look at her and know things he hadn't known before this had all happened. and some of things he forces himself not to think about because it's going to make him react in ways that aren't really right for this conversation. ]
There's...a lifetime of things in my head that I know aren't real but I still remember them like they are. [ and they both had to live with that, cope with that, deal with what it meant for the two of them. he bows his head, shoulders slouching for a second. ]
We were married. [ and it had been good. it had been a good, good marriage. ] And we did...things married people do.
[ he was just going to address that since it was one of the many things they'd have to face and deal with when it came to this. ]
Are you uncomfortable around me? [ might as well ask. ]
[ she remembers their life together. not every detail, some things more than others — but she remembers wearing a white dress and saying i do. she remembers meeting him in a bar and falling in love with him. she remembers knowing that he could break her heart and telling him what she does, who she is at her core, anyway.
she remembers him accepting her. she remembers kisses and making love and evenings curled up together and fights and a million small moments of everyday life, significant in their insignificance.
she remembers bringing their daughter home for the first time. watching their girl grow into a teenager.
she remembers loving him more than anything, anyone else except silena.
it had been so good. ]
Not because of anything we did.
[ it had been good and she's not uncomfortable because they had sex (made love, really, and somehow that's both better and so much worse) or kissed or anything.
her lips twist a little, not quite a smile but close enough. ]
I'm a little uncomfortable not knowing who I should be around you. I'm not your wife — but I was. We're not together, but we were. Where are the lines now?
[ because if he closes his eyes, he can imagine them back on their couch, in their home, living their life. he can go back to that reality even though it's gone and, as far as he knows, it's gone for good. he blows out a breath, scratching a hand through his beard and trying to figure out how to answer the question. ]
I don't know if I know the answer either. I have the same question. I'm not your husband but I was. We had a life together but our lives are...different here.
[ they still had a relationship but they hadn't had a chance to build it past friendship in this reality. and yet, he could remember a deeper, more personal relationship despite knowing that it wasn't them (but it was).
the whole thing was very, very confusing. ]
We should probably figure something out considering — [ they lived together. they couldn't really avoid each other like they'd been doing and besides, it sucked to do that. he hated it. she was his friends, still, no matter what and he didn't want to lose that. ]
[ it wasn't real, but it still happened to them and so they can't just go on like it never did. that's the crux of the problem, isn't it; that's what makes things so fraught and fragile between them now. ]
I don't know, either. I could make something up and make you believe that I believe it, but -
[ it would be a lie. he knows that she lies for a living, but she doesn't want to lie to him. not about this, not about them. not if she can help it.
(she would lie to him in a heartbeat if she thought it was for the greater good.)
bobbi downs the rest of her drink, laughing a little to herself. it's an almost embarrassed sound and what comes next is an admission she probably shouldn't be making. ]
I keep thinking about kissing you. About making that frown disappear. [ she knows she could. she knows that she knows just how to take his breath away, how to make him feel good, how to distract him.
there are so many boundaries she'd be crossing. before zerzura, that was't who they were. (they'd kissed under the mistletoe, they'd cuddled, but they'd been friends. maybe they would have eventually grown to be more. maybe they wouldn't have.
they'll never find out now what would have happened. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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it felt real.
(is this how hunter felt, not knowing?)
she had feelings for marcos. they didn't develop naturally, but she still remembers the wealth and depth of what she'd felt for him, how overwhelmingly wonderful it had been to know and trust and love him.
he's been avoiding her. to be fair, she's been avoiding him, too, telling herself it's just until she figures out what it is she feels, how to best handle it. there's no guidebook for this; she never pretended to be in love with him. this wasn't some undercover op she was running. she could deal with that, but she doesn't know how to handle her own emotions now.
so she works longer hours.
unfortunately for their mutual avoidance, so does he — and it means that when she lets herself into the apartment particularly late one evening, he isn't out or in bed. he's in the kitchen, barely outlined by the light coming in through the window from one of the neon advertisements across the street. bobbi can just about make out that there's a bottle near his hand.
for a moment, she doesn't move. for a moment, she considers making an attempt to sneak into her room. she could get past him quietly enough, but there's no way he missed her opening the door and coming in.
(he'd let her pretend, she thinks.)
bobbi morse is a lot of things, but she's never considered herself a coward. so, quietly, not reaching for the light switch either, because some things are easier in the dark: ]
Hey.
[ they can't keep avoiding each other forever. they can't keep avoiding this forever. ]
no subject
he doesn't know which one he's hoping for. he doesn't know what to say. there's a lifetime's worth of memories shoved into his head and there are feelings that are still swirling in his chest and he doesn't know if they're real or if they're residual and he doesn't know what to say to her.
apologize? ignore it like it hadn't happened? but it had and they can't. so, when he hears her footfalls get closer and stop, he knows she's there but he doesn't turn. he waits an waits until she says something and then, he straightens and looks back over his shoulder.
it's dark but he can see here there, brightened by the lights from outside. she's been working late just like he is and tonight, those late nights have meant they're home at the same time and they're both awake. ]
Hey.
[ he turns a bit, resting a hip against the counter and staring out the window at the garish neon sign that's nearby. ]
You're back late.
[ home late? is that too...familiar? too much like they'd been a few days ago? he blows out a quiet breath.
he reaches for the bottle and then a glass, pouring some amber liquid out and taking a few sips. strong but not so strong that he winces. ]
no subject
[ she's tired. she could hide that. she could easily find a way to manipulate this situation toward the outcome she wants — but that would require knowing what outcome she wants. part of her wants to pretend it never happened. part of her wants what they had back.
in the end, she doesn't try to hide the exhaustion in the lines of her shoulders. (she died and now she's alive and that has nothing to do with any of this, but it doesn't make this easier.) he knows that she's a spy; he knew even before their fantastical relationship. she wonders if he'll think that the exhaustion she's showing is manipulation, too. he wouldn't have while they thought they were married.
he pours himself a drink and bobbi hesitates for a moment before taking a step closer, letting herself lean against the doorframe. ]
Are you willing to share?
[ the drink. the same space, for a moment. he could say no and she'd leave and they'd go back to awkwardly avoiding each other.
she hopes he won't. ]
no subject
[ he nods, pulling his eyes away from the window and finally looking at her. he can tell she's tired. whether that's from work or from avoiding him or a combination of both, he doesn't know.
but, he knows (remembers?) that if she didn't want to show him something, she wouldn't. so, the fact that he can tell is saying something.
in answer to her question, he reaches for another glass and settles it on the counter. ] I'm willing. I don't know what it is. I picked it up on the way here.
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the instinct to keep moving into his space, to fit herself against him, is there. she knows that they fit together, now. she knows just how well they fit.
it costs effort to stay at a reasonable distance. ]
I won't blame you if it's awful. [ she forces her tone into lightness, but it's only a temporary measure of avoidance. they can't keep dancing around this forever. (they probably could.)
she takes the glass and takes a sip, forcing herself not to wince when she feels it go down her throat, sharp and strong.
then she swallows. ]
Marcos-
[ god, she used to say his name and it meant so much. now, she finds herself at a loss. ]
no subject
they drink in silence which...just draws out the discomfort. he tries to fill it by pouring himself another glass. there's the thought of just bidding her goodnight, slipping out and going to bed and dragging this out another day.
he coughs and starts to do just that when she says his name and it stops him cold. ]
We don't — [ don't what? he has nothing planned here. he downs another helping of the strong liquid and drops the glass onto the counter. ] We don't have to.
[ talk about it? think about it? remember it? he doesn't know. ]
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they don't have to. whatever it is, they don't have to — but what's the alternative?
she takes a larger swallow of the drink, closing her eyes for a moment. she's tired and the certainty that before, she could have walked into his space and set her head against his shoulder and he would have held her and kissed her until the tiredness faded or they could've carried it together is almost overwhelming.
she wants to tell him about dying. she wants to tell him that she loves him — but is that still true? is the feeling going to fade, like the blue glow and the sense of serenity? ]
I think we do.
[ they can't keep dancing around this, avoiding this entirely. ]
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the would go on being...he doesn't know. they'd been friends before this but what were they now? ]
Yeah. [ he exhales the word, eyes on the counter, on his hand braced against the counter. on the glass and the bottle and the floor. ] All right.
[ he still doesn't know what to say though but he grabs the bottle and his glass and pushes away from the counter. ]
Let's sit down.
[ at the table, on the couch, he just doesn't want to do this standing up in the kitchen. ]
no subject
[ he pushes away from the counter and bobbi isn't moving yet, so it brings them closer for a moment before she takes a step back and heads for the living room and the couch. she doesn't let her breath hitch at the momentary proximity, doesn't let herself react in any way.
(sitting at the table feels too - stiff. too much like a negotiation. the couch is where they'd watched a movie, where they'd cuddled and joked with one another and been relaxed and comfortable in each other's space before all this, before heated kisses and slow love-making and a lifetime of loving one another.
it feels both more solid and infinitely more dangerous, but bobbi's never been good at playing things entirely safe.)
once on the couch, she turns to him, curling one leg beneath her body, leaving herself open to him. it's only partially deliberate, the rest is instinct. ]
Are you okay?
[ she asks after a moment of just looking at him, looking down at her glass instead. she can guess the answer, but it's a starting point, at least. ]
no subject
those two people had been the same two people that were sitting on this couch right now. different but the same. if it had just been a physical relationship, he thinks he'd be able to deal with it a little better but it had been a relationship that encompassed everything.
he leaves the light off in the living room, letting ambient light from outside filter in before he takes a seat, leaving some space between them. the bottle gets placed on the coffee table and he sits back, slightly turned towards her. ]
Not really.
[ the truth slips out before he can bury it down. he's not okay. he's upset and he's angry (not with her) and he hates that just as he was starting to recover from one thing, another came along and smacked him. ]
You?
[ they were talking. it was...superficial but it was more than they'd been doing. ]
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the lack of light in the apartment makes it hard to make out his features, although her eyes are getting used to the low light now. maybe it's better this way, less sharp. ]
I will be.
[ for him, the truth had slipped out. for her, it's a conscious choice to let it escape. there's an admission in the words that she's not okay, but there's quiet confidence, too. she isn't okay right now, between what they had and dying, but she can handle it.
she'll be all right, even if she isn't right now. ]
It's - weird, isn't it? [ her expression shifts a little, tone lowering over weird because that's an understatement, really. but it's vague enough to cover what she means without really saying anything at all. ]
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[ another word was confusing. another word was chaotic. he swallows and gives his glass a wiggle, watching the liquid slosh back and forth before he sighs and shakes his head. ]
It's weird. [ the words are low but the agreement is sincere. ] I'm —
[ he doesn't know exactly what to say. he wants to apologize but it hadn't been his fault. he hadn't caused that fantasy land to fold them both into it. they'd been in love, been married, had a kid, had a family.
his fingers twitch almost with the want of reaching across to her and tangling his fingers with hers. this is...this is hard. ]
I'm not sure what to do. [ that was complete and utter honesty. ]
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the fact that they'd curled up together on this very couch before everything that happened in zerzura, the fact that she remembers kissing him under the mistletoe as much as she remembers kissing him over and over again in the home they'd shared, husband and wife, that doesn't make this easier. there's warmth in her cheeks that she thinks the darkness will hide. she's glad for that, at least. ]
Yeah, same.
[ that, at least, is easy to admit.
she swallows. he hadn't caused the fantasy to enfold them. she hadn't, either. now the fantasy is broken, but they both still have all those memories of loving each other, of having chosen each other. ]
You're not -
[ no, let her start over. ]
You don't owe me anything.
[ she's not sure if he'd think that he would, unconsciously if not consciously, but even if he doesn't, it deserves being said out loud. they don't owe each other anything just because they were married in zerzura. she has no claim on him and he has no claim on her.
not unless they want that. not unless they make that choice again. ]
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[ he realizes he's going to need to specify what he means by that considering the amount of questions and confusion between them. he rubs a hand against his chin, against his beard before clarifying: ]
Did you want a life like that, I mean? [ because he knows it's something he'd wanted for a long, long time. he'd thought he'd get it with lorna when she'd gotten pregnant but then she'd taken dawn away and she'd taken herself away too.
that hadn't dimmed his want for a life like that. he'd wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life with someone he loved and being a better father than his own father. ]
You don't owe me anything either. [ they'd been together in zerzura. they were...they were something here. ] I'm not sure what you're supposed to do with all this.
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I used to be married. [ she says after a moment, looking down at her glass before looking back at marcos. ] We got divorced for a lot of reasons, but that I lie for a living was a big one.
[ not just that she lies for a living, but that she manipulates people and situations. that she'd lied to hunter, too. that it had all been for the greater good hadn't mattered, or hadn't mattered enough to make a difference.
it's not a direct answer to his question, but in a way, it is. she'd wanted what they had. part of her still wants it, especially now that she knows what it could have been like, could have felt like. (probably, she should have known it was an illusion. no real relationship could be that smooth, for all that she remembers the two of them fighting, too, that stable — certainly not if one party is a professional liar and the other knows it.)
to have a partner, to have someone who doesn't judge her for what she dies — that's something she wants. it isn't something she thinks she can have, not really.
bobbi lifts her shoulders in a little shrug, helplessly (and letting him see it). ] Did you?
[ she doesn't know what she's supposed to do with all this, either. what he's supposed to do with it. if there's anything to be done other than just moving forward. ]
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[ he thinks he should tell her about dawn. about the daughter left behind, taken from him too soon, about the void that left behind but he doesn't know if he can do that and maintain composure after what they'd just come out of. ]
I did a lot of bad stuff to survive but even when I was doing that, I was still trying to help families stay together, to hide, to move especially if they were like me because I didn't want anyone else to be like me.
[ to be alone and desolate. to not know where your next meal was coming from or where you were going to sleep that night. he'd wanted to help families because he was certain he couldn't have one of his own. ] But, I guess I never really stopped wanting something like that for myself. The family I didn't have, people who — cared.
[ loved, he'd almost said. ] I just wanted a chance.
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now, even just the idea of it feels dangerous. feels like it could be too much. and still, not offering some form of comfort feels wrong, too. for a moment, bobbi (who prides herself in being decisive and swift in her actions) is frozen by indecision. ]
I'm sorry.
[ she reaches out to touch his wrist, in the end, squeezing it briefly before letting to again. a compromise of sorts, but the touch still feels — more, somehow. more meaningful. maybe it's a question of awareness. before, touching him would have been more of an unthinking thing, now it's fraught with meaning, heavy with it.
she drags in a breath, letting it out slowly. ]
No child should have to go through that.
[ but more recently — ]
And I'm sorry it got taken from you.
[ from them, really. ]
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[ it hadn't just been ripped away from him. their life, their happiness, their family, had been taken away at the whim of that place. they'd been enfolded into it and then, when that place had been done with them, they'd been forced out. he was hurting but he knows he's not alone.
he blows out a long, strained breath and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. he hasn't been sleeping well and he doubts she has either. or anyone who dealt with that shit. ]
I'm sorry that your husband — ex husband — wasn't comfortable with what you did. Do. I know a few things about doing a job that's dangerous and that sometimes means you keep things from the ones you love. It's not easy. But it doesn't mean you shouldn't be...cared for any less.
[ he doesn't know much about her former relationship but he does know her (especially now) and she deserved someone who would support her through it all. ]
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[ it's easier for her to focus on him than it is to admit that she lost something, too. she lost a relationship that was as close to ideal as it gets, a husband who supported her despite knowing who she is and what she does. someone who trusted her because he knew the person she is.
(she also lost her life, in the end, but she's here, so did she really die?) ]
Thank you. [ she has to clear her throat before she can say as much. ] For saying that.
[ for having been there, at least in their fantasy.
she wouldn't presume that he'd be as forgiving in reality, irrespective of the fact that she wouldn't presume that they'd ever be in a relationship in reality.
it's not the sort of thing anyone should be presumptuous about.
bobbi reaches for her drink again, taking another sip. ]
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[ it feels like the least he could do. it feels like he's doing nothing at all. they're still talking in stilted, strained sentences and things still feel tense. he watches her take a drink and looks down at his hands, picking at a nail on one finger just for something to do.
he lets the silence lengthen until it's uncomfortable, until it's heavy and suffocating. another burden for two people who were already shouldering a lot. marcos rubs a hand against the back of his neck, feeling at a loss. ]
Is this working? [ talking about it. are they doing it wrong? does it feel better to her? ] I don't — what are we doing wrong that it feels so hard still?
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it really isn't funny. none of this is funny and it's actually awful, but at least she's not the only one feeling awkward. at least she's not the only one feeling — like the ground isn't quite solid. ]
I don't think we're doing anything wrong.
[ she forces herself to look at this as she would any other situation, to analyse it, the emotion involved. to consider all the angles and how she could manipulate things toward a particular outcome.
she still doesn't know what outcome she'd want, so as an exercise in taking control of this, it's useless — but at least it gives her some perspective. ]
It's -
We were married. [ and not the kind of marriage that meant sharing a name but having separate bedrooms but a solid and strong one — but she doesn't need to tell him that. he was there. he already knows. ]
And now we're not and we know that it wasn't - real. It still happened to us, though. I think it's going to be hard for a while.
[ she shakes her head a little, all laughter long faded, running a hand through her hair. ]
It wasn't really long enough to form habits, was it? But it feels like it was. [ it takes effort, now, not to lean into his space, not to kiss him.
it's so strange, looking at him and knowing what it's like to kiss him, what it feels like when he holds her, what it's like to wake up next to him. what it's like to share a life with him.
and to know that that's not their reality anymore. ]
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There's...a lifetime of things in my head that I know aren't real but I still remember them like they are. [ and they both had to live with that, cope with that, deal with what it meant for the two of them. he bows his head, shoulders slouching for a second. ]
We were married. [ and it had been good. it had been a good, good marriage. ] And we did...things married people do.
[ he was just going to address that since it was one of the many things they'd have to face and deal with when it came to this. ]
Are you uncomfortable around me? [ might as well ask. ]
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[ she remembers their life together. not every detail, some things more than others — but she remembers wearing a white dress and saying i do. she remembers meeting him in a bar and falling in love with him. she remembers knowing that he could break her heart and telling him what she does, who she is at her core, anyway.
she remembers him accepting her. she remembers kisses and making love and evenings curled up together and fights and a million small moments of everyday life, significant in their insignificance.
she remembers bringing their daughter home for the first time. watching their girl grow into a teenager.
she remembers loving him more than anything, anyone else except silena.
it had been so good. ]
Not because of anything we did.
[ it had been good and she's not uncomfortable because they had sex (made love, really, and somehow that's both better and so much worse) or kissed or anything.
her lips twist a little, not quite a smile but close enough. ]
I'm a little uncomfortable not knowing who I should be around you. I'm not your wife — but I was. We're not together, but we were. Where are the lines now?
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[ because if he closes his eyes, he can imagine them back on their couch, in their home, living their life. he can go back to that reality even though it's gone and, as far as he knows, it's gone for good. he blows out a breath, scratching a hand through his beard and trying to figure out how to answer the question. ]
I don't know if I know the answer either. I have the same question. I'm not your husband but I was. We had a life together but our lives are...different here.
[ they still had a relationship but they hadn't had a chance to build it past friendship in this reality. and yet, he could remember a deeper, more personal relationship despite knowing that it wasn't them (but it was).
the whole thing was very, very confusing. ]
We should probably figure something out considering — [ they lived together. they couldn't really avoid each other like they'd been doing and besides, it sucked to do that. he hated it. she was his friends, still, no matter what and he didn't want to lose that. ]
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I don't know, either. I could make something up and make you believe that I believe it, but -
[ it would be a lie. he knows that she lies for a living, but she doesn't want to lie to him. not about this, not about them. not if she can help it.
(she would lie to him in a heartbeat if she thought it was for the greater good.)
bobbi downs the rest of her drink, laughing a little to herself. it's an almost embarrassed sound and what comes next is an admission she probably shouldn't be making. ]
I keep thinking about kissing you. About making that frown disappear. [ she knows she could. she knows that she knows just how to take his breath away, how to make him feel good, how to distract him.
there are so many boundaries she'd be crossing. before zerzura, that was't who they were. (they'd kissed under the mistletoe, they'd cuddled, but they'd been friends. maybe they would have eventually grown to be more. maybe they wouldn't have.
they'll never find out now what would have happened. ]
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