[ how does she answer that? in the end, she shrugs, shoulders curving forward a little. ]
I don't regret it.
[ that's not an answer to his question, but it's something, surely? it matters to her. she made her choice. ]
I will be, I think.
[ not right now. right now, she's still trying to make sense of all of it — of what she felt, feels for marcos, of her feelings about death and dying, about her own choices. ]
[ he blows out a long breath before sitting back and looking back over at her. she's not hiding much right now, which he thinks has to be because of both exhaustion and possibly him, but whatever the reason, he's grateful. he wants to see the real emotions right now. ]
I'm sorry.
[ for not being there, for not being able to help more, for not knowing how it felt to die so he could sympathize. all he can do is sit there and watch her and talk and think about reaching across to take her hand. ]
If I can help, I will. [ even with things fragile between them, he can't not offer. ]
It was my choice. I knew I'd die. [ fitz had. markus had. that had been in dreams, so she'd allowed for a possibility that it might turn out differently, that she might not die or stay dead, the way they hadn't stayed dead, but — she'd known the risks.
she'd known and she'd made the choice anyway. she'd make the choice over and over again, if she had to.
she's still tired. she's still — a little out of sorts. part of that is him, them, this. part of it is dying. she wishes she could curl against him and let herself rest. in zerzura, she would have, and he'd have put his arm around her and kissed her hair and it wouldn't have changed anything but reminded her that she's not alone.
she can't do that now.
he's still offering to help, though. that helps a little all by itself. ]
[ because he hadn't gone for the spear. he hadn't gone near it. he'd sought out people around the city, checking on them, making sure they were okay but he hadn't gone for the spear and now he was finding out that some of the people he was closest to had and they'd died.
it was a small blessing they were still alive and got a second (or third) chance but they'd still died. he'd still lost them and it still hurt. but, he knows he's being selfish because he wasn't the one who died. this wasn't about him. ]
You're welcome. I mean it. [ he wants to help. he wants to make things better for her (or for anyone that died) and he doesn't know how to do that but offering himself, his help, anything. ] I know you're strong and you're used to death but you died. That takes time.
I swore an oath. [ does it make her braver or just more reckless? she doesn't know and she doesn't really care — she won't hold it against anyone if they didn't go for the spear.
she lifts a hand, running it through her hair. her first instinct had been to press it to her eyes for a moment, but for all that she's showing him a lot, she's not able to let go of monitoring her own expression and appearance entirely, of not thinking about how she seems to others. letting him see what he sees is mostly a deliberate choice.
then she sighs. ]
I know I have no right to ask this, but can we just -
[ she doesn't finish the sentence. instead, she shifts closer to him — until her arm is pressed against his, until all she'd have to do is sink down in the sofa a little more and she could put her head on his shoulder and just rest for a moment. ]
[ he breathes the word out and moves his arm, draping it around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. it's not smart, it's not going to help them figure things out, it's not going to help things settle but he doesn't care. she needs it and he needs it and he wants to help and maybe it'll help him too. ]
C'mere. [ he tugs on her shoulder where he's wrapped it around her and tries to encourage her closer. ] We can.
[ they can rest. they can rest on this couch together and try and start focusing on this life while that other life draped itself around them. it's not going to go away, he knows, and he's not going to forget but he can try and focus on the her he knows here and their relationship, whatever it might be. ]
[ his acceptance is nearly immediate and bobbi is already sinking against him when he drapes his arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. it's a bad idea — she's pretty sure it's a terrible idea because it isn't going to help them figure out where they stand if they fall back into habits they had while married to one another, from a life they only lived in part but remember in full.
it isn't going to help them figure out how to go forward, but right now, it's what makes sense to her. it's comforting and familiar.
she realises, something inside her chest clenching painfully at the thought, that they still fit. ]
Yeah. [ they can. it's a relief, for all that she feels like she shouldn't have asked in the first place. it's a relief to let herself rest against him, to close her eyes and let herself believe that things are all right, that she's not alone.
that's true even if she's not with him in the way they were together before.
for a long moment, bobbi doesn't move, doesn't speak.
eventually, quietly: ] Who else do you know died? [ she'd seen some people go for the spear as well, but given his understanding of what it had meant, she figures he's heard from others. ]
[ he's careful while she settles against him, eventually leaning back against the corner so he can stretch and she can lay against him more fully. when the silence cloaks them, he closes his eyes and inhales, quiet and still but warm. this is so familiar even though it's not. they hadn't done this before, not here, but they had.
his fingers brush idly against her shoulder as a means to comfort and soothe while they figure out how to lay, how to be, how to interact. but she's right, they fit once, they fit again and it doesn't take long to find the spot to lay that's comfortable for them both. ]
Jyn and Cassian. Caroline. Kol. A few other people I don't know as well. Just...it was a lot of people. A lot of sacrifice.
[ brave people willing to die for a world they didn't know. ]
[ they've done this before — not quite this, not exactly this, but close enough. they've sat on this couch and watched a movie and cuddled before and this isn't entirely unlike that. it isn't unlike that, but there's layers and layers of memory, of physicality and familiarity that they hadn't had before zerzura now.
they fit just as well now as they did in zerzura. in the house that they'd believed was their home. ]
Maybe that's what worked. That it was more than one person. Maybe that's why we're still here.
[ they died, but they're alive now.
bobbi settles more firmly against him, her breathing falling into the same rhythm as his soon enough, remembering to be this close to him, to trust the companionship between them.
i married this man part of her thinks, remembers. only she didn't, did she? she doesn't know when she'll get used to that. ]
Maybe. I just hope it's worth it. That it does something.
[ zerzura had been saved but marcos doesn't know what that means. it was a world that had enfolded them into a fantasy and made them believe something that wasn't true but that wasn't the fault of most people there. they hadn't deserved to die but he's so tired of being made to bend and twist to the whims of others. the first time, he'd nearly been killed.
this time, the experience hadn't been terrible but it memories and uncertainty in its wake. he sighs and closes his eyes, letting some of his own tension bleed away with the closeness and the warmth. ]
I would prefer if people could avoid dying for the next little while. I'm not dumb enough to ask for a break because that won't happen but something that doesn't involve dying.
[ that would be good. that would be helpful. ] Not that I get what I want but doesn't hurt to ask.
she wouldn't mind a break, either, but she figures this moment is probably as close to one as they'll come. with the alcohol warming her from the inside and marcos' body warm against hers, it feels like she could just let herself relax, maybe fall asleep.
she shouldn't. there are still lines and they haven't solved anything here, not really. he isn't her husband anymore.
he's something, though. neither one of them can just forget what happened, that much is clear. ]
[ let's hope. he doesn't want to tempt fate by thinking about it too much but he desperately wishes they'd just get some quiet. just a few weeks of quiet, calmness so people who died can recover and people who led lives that weren't theirs can come to grips with it.
new amsterdam isn't known for being giving though. it's known for rattling their cages and shaking things up and making it nearly impossible to get into a routine because something always came along to break it. ]
You can close your eyes, if you want. [ she's not heavy but he can tell she' holding herself back, trying not to fall asleep on him. ] It's okay.
[ for a moment, bobbi freezes — internally, not externally. even now, she's not that open. then she huffs out a laugh, barely more than a breath.
he really does know her, doesn't he? (it's either laughter or letting herself dwell on what that means for her, for them. laughter is easier. there have been enough revelations for one night.) ]
Are you sure?
[ she doesn't want to make things more awkward instead of less. but if he's offering —
it's all too tempting to close her eyes and let herself rest, letting the feeling of safety and comfort that his embrace brings wash over her. ]
[ would it make things more awkward when she woke up? maybe. was he going to fall asleep too? probably.
but, she's exhausted and he's not much better. he wants her to sleep right now. he wants her to relax and unwind and let go of herself at least for a little while. ]
Close your eyes, okay? [ listen to him, he's smart. she'd married him for a reason in that other life. ] I'll wake you up in a little while.
[ and she does close her eyes. after a moment, she even settles a little more firmly against him (or snuggling in closer, but she won't let herself think of it that way) and lets out a breath, some more tension bleeding from her frame. ]
[ they're both just resting their eyes. they're both just napping. bobbi definitely isn't sinking deeper into sleep than she's managed the last few nights, too used after what she remembers to be years of sleeping next to him to having him there, to hearing him breath as she drifts of and curling an arm over his chest as she sleeps. ]
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I don't regret it.
[ that's not an answer to his question, but it's something, surely? it matters to her. she made her choice. ]
I will be, I think.
[ not right now. right now, she's still trying to make sense of all of it — of what she felt, feels for marcos, of her feelings about death and dying, about her own choices. ]
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I'm sorry.
[ for not being there, for not being able to help more, for not knowing how it felt to die so he could sympathize. all he can do is sit there and watch her and talk and think about reaching across to take her hand. ]
If I can help, I will. [ even with things fragile between them, he can't not offer. ]
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[ she means that. ]
It was my choice. I knew I'd die. [ fitz had. markus had. that had been in dreams, so she'd allowed for a possibility that it might turn out differently, that she might not die or stay dead, the way they hadn't stayed dead, but — she'd known the risks.
she'd known and she'd made the choice anyway. she'd make the choice over and over again, if she had to.
she's still tired. she's still — a little out of sorts. part of that is him, them, this. part of it is dying. she wishes she could curl against him and let herself rest. in zerzura, she would have, and he'd have put his arm around her and kissed her hair and it wouldn't have changed anything but reminded her that she's not alone.
she can't do that now.
he's still offering to help, though. that helps a little all by itself. ]
Thanks.
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[ because he hadn't gone for the spear. he hadn't gone near it. he'd sought out people around the city, checking on them, making sure they were okay but he hadn't gone for the spear and now he was finding out that some of the people he was closest to had and they'd died.
it was a small blessing they were still alive and got a second (or third) chance but they'd still died. he'd still lost them and it still hurt. but, he knows he's being selfish because he wasn't the one who died. this wasn't about him. ]
You're welcome. I mean it. [ he wants to help. he wants to make things better for her (or for anyone that died) and he doesn't know how to do that but offering himself, his help, anything. ] I know you're strong and you're used to death but you died. That takes time.
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she lifts a hand, running it through her hair. her first instinct had been to press it to her eyes for a moment, but for all that she's showing him a lot, she's not able to let go of monitoring her own expression and appearance entirely, of not thinking about how she seems to others. letting him see what he sees is mostly a deliberate choice.
then she sighs. ]
I know I have no right to ask this, but can we just -
[ she doesn't finish the sentence. instead, she shifts closer to him — until her arm is pressed against his, until all she'd have to do is sink down in the sofa a little more and she could put her head on his shoulder and just rest for a moment. ]
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[ he breathes the word out and moves his arm, draping it around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. it's not smart, it's not going to help them figure things out, it's not going to help things settle but he doesn't care. she needs it and he needs it and he wants to help and maybe it'll help him too. ]
C'mere. [ he tugs on her shoulder where he's wrapped it around her and tries to encourage her closer. ] We can.
[ they can rest. they can rest on this couch together and try and start focusing on this life while that other life draped itself around them. it's not going to go away, he knows, and he's not going to forget but he can try and focus on the her he knows here and their relationship, whatever it might be. ]
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it isn't going to help them figure out how to go forward, but right now, it's what makes sense to her. it's comforting and familiar.
she realises, something inside her chest clenching painfully at the thought, that they still fit. ]
Yeah. [ they can. it's a relief, for all that she feels like she shouldn't have asked in the first place. it's a relief to let herself rest against him, to close her eyes and let herself believe that things are all right, that she's not alone.
that's true even if she's not with him in the way they were together before.
for a long moment, bobbi doesn't move, doesn't speak.
eventually, quietly: ] Who else do you know died? [ she'd seen some people go for the spear as well, but given his understanding of what it had meant, she figures he's heard from others. ]
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his fingers brush idly against her shoulder as a means to comfort and soothe while they figure out how to lay, how to be, how to interact. but she's right, they fit once, they fit again and it doesn't take long to find the spot to lay that's comfortable for them both. ]
Jyn and Cassian. Caroline. Kol. A few other people I don't know as well. Just...it was a lot of people. A lot of sacrifice.
[ brave people willing to die for a world they didn't know. ]
I haven't talked to a few of them.
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they fit just as well now as they did in zerzura. in the house that they'd believed was their home. ]
Maybe that's what worked. That it was more than one person. Maybe that's why we're still here.
[ they died, but they're alive now.
bobbi settles more firmly against him, her breathing falling into the same rhythm as his soon enough, remembering to be this close to him, to trust the companionship between them.
i married this man part of her thinks, remembers. only she didn't, did she? she doesn't know when she'll get used to that. ]
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[ zerzura had been saved but marcos doesn't know what that means. it was a world that had enfolded them into a fantasy and made them believe something that wasn't true but that wasn't the fault of most people there. they hadn't deserved to die but he's so tired of being made to bend and twist to the whims of others. the first time, he'd nearly been killed.
this time, the experience hadn't been terrible but it memories and uncertainty in its wake. he sighs and closes his eyes, letting some of his own tension bleed away with the closeness and the warmth. ]
I would prefer if people could avoid dying for the next little while. I'm not dumb enough to ask for a break because that won't happen but something that doesn't involve dying.
[ that would be good. that would be helpful. ] Not that I get what I want but doesn't hurt to ask.
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[ not dying.
she wouldn't mind a break, either, but she figures this moment is probably as close to one as they'll come. with the alcohol warming her from the inside and marcos' body warm against hers, it feels like she could just let herself relax, maybe fall asleep.
she shouldn't. there are still lines and they haven't solved anything here, not really. he isn't her husband anymore.
he's something, though. neither one of them can just forget what happened, that much is clear. ]
Let's hope it's not too much to ask for.
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[ let's hope. he doesn't want to tempt fate by thinking about it too much but he desperately wishes they'd just get some quiet. just a few weeks of quiet, calmness so people who died can recover and people who led lives that weren't theirs can come to grips with it.
new amsterdam isn't known for being giving though. it's known for rattling their cages and shaking things up and making it nearly impossible to get into a routine because something always came along to break it. ]
You can close your eyes, if you want. [ she's not heavy but he can tell she' holding herself back, trying not to fall asleep on him. ] It's okay.
[ for tonight, it can be okay. ]
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he really does know her, doesn't he? (it's either laughter or letting herself dwell on what that means for her, for them. laughter is easier. there have been enough revelations for one night.) ]
Are you sure?
[ she doesn't want to make things more awkward instead of less. but if he's offering —
it's all too tempting to close her eyes and let herself rest, letting the feeling of safety and comfort that his embrace brings wash over her. ]
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[ would it make things more awkward when she woke up? maybe. was he going to fall asleep too? probably.
but, she's exhausted and he's not much better. he wants her to sleep right now. he wants her to relax and unwind and let go of herself at least for a little while. ]
Close your eyes, okay? [ listen to him, he's smart. she'd married him for a reason in that other life. ] I'll wake you up in a little while.
[ maybe. if he didn't fall asleep himself. ]
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[ and she does close her eyes. after a moment, she even settles a little more firmly against him (or snuggling in closer, but she won't let herself think of it that way) and lets out a breath, some more tension bleeding from her frame. ]
Thanks, Marcos.
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[ he lowers his voice and closes his own eyes, telling himself that he's just going to rest them for a bit.
but, deep down, he knows he's going to fall asleep too. right there on the couch with her in their apartment after she'd died and they'd been married.
a nap was deserved. ]
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