Got somethin' for you if you wanna come by.
[Is this him asking for a date? Maybe.]
[Is this him asking for a date? Maybe.]
[Intriguing. The novelty of being given things still hasn't worn off, and that has her doubly curious.]
Be there soon.
Be there soon.
When you're available, there's something I'd like to speak with you about. In person, if possible.
Sure, I can take some time out of my busy, busy griping schedule for a chat. Ten minutes from now, some common room?
[After a long and very strange week, Arthur takes a day to be alone in his own head. He tells Tess so, that he just needs a moment to get back to himself - and then resurfaces, a day later, to knock on her door with a bottle of whiskey.]
[Tess opens the door shortly and almost says something silly, but she catches herself –– Arthur's not who she expected to see, but she's always pleased to see him, anyway. She's wearing a nicer-than usual blouse and has only one earring in. The other is in her hand.]
Already back for more?
[That's lighthearted, but she figures some people wouldn't talk to her for a month if they had to ride around in her head for a week.]
Already back for more?
[That's lighthearted, but she figures some people wouldn't talk to her for a month if they had to ride around in her head for a week.]
Jake spilled his guts, by the way. Entirely between ourselves, of course, and presumably also your warden if you got caught up in that nonsense last month.
Ugh, god, of course he did.
[Not that any of them could really avoid it, but...]
Sorry about any eyefuls. Or brain-fulls. Whatever the hell tipped you off.
[Not that any of them could really avoid it, but...]
Sorry about any eyefuls. Or brain-fulls. Whatever the hell tipped you off.
[Her first thought is here we go. Arthur must have talked to him. Her second is so what? Nothing has to change. She can just go get drinks with him, fuck him, and do whatever she'd like. The minute she has some alcohol in her belly and a dick in front of her face, she is not going to be thinking about warden-inmate bullshit or avoiding subjects with Arthur or whatever else she's supposed to be putting her time and effort into.
She's fine, Jake is fine, it's all fine.
So, breezily:]
Yeah, I'm in. Yours or mine?
She's fine, Jake is fine, it's all fine.
So, breezily:]
Yeah, I'm in. Yours or mine?
After he's woken up, he takes a few days before he remembers that he had to ask her something. He just knocks on her door - why bother with a message?
Tess answers the door promptly, though she’s obviously been busy —- her cabin is a disaster, things laid out on every surface and the floor for a full-on inventory. A year later she’s finally gotten around to dismantling the rest of her busted dresser.
“Hey, Outlaw,” she says brightly.
“Hey, Outlaw,” she says brightly.
[Tess has never answered a text faster in her life.]
Are you serious?
Are you serious?
[Tess feels exhausted before she even opens her communicator, and she listens to the message three times before she plucks up that good old gameness. Injects some grim humour in her voice. Go get 'em.]
So we'll do dinner instead next time. Mix it up.
So we'll do dinner instead next time. Mix it up.
Arthur isn't going to let her out of his sight. They do what they have to do, and he takes her broken, mangled body to a safe place. William can try whatever the fuck he wants, he got to wake up with Misty, Tess can wake up somewhere safe, too.
He puts her down in her bed, then puts through the request. And if the cordyceps comes back with her, he'll just do it again. Get to that when they get to it.
He's not going to think about what it felt like to open the door, to have the body barge through, and then to step up behind it and twist its neck. He can't think about that.
Tess is awake before she moves –– the time between Arthur's hands on her and this very moment feels like the blink of an eye, and it doesn't occur to her at first that her body is her own again.
The first movement is just a reflexive cough to clear her throat, something she'd been trying to do for hours before, her human body warring for the right to breathe against an entity that had never considered that it was like to choke, much less choke on someone else's blood. Then her eyes snap open when she realizes she can move at all, and then she blinks rapidly, perhaps just to prove she can. Her eyes have never felt so dry.
Jesus Christ, she tries to say, but it just comes out as a gasp.
The first movement is just a reflexive cough to clear her throat, something she'd been trying to do for hours before, her human body warring for the right to breathe against an entity that had never considered that it was like to choke, much less choke on someone else's blood. Then her eyes snap open when she realizes she can move at all, and then she blinks rapidly, perhaps just to prove she can. Her eyes have never felt so dry.
Jesus Christ, she tries to say, but it just comes out as a gasp.
spam, maybe about a week and a half after the end of the flood?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
punched_hitler
2021-09-09 03:35 am (UTC)(link)
Steve tries to wait until it seems like Tess will be up to talking; he also tries not to put this off so long that it'll seem utterly rude. He ends up sort of splitting the difference, probably - Tess will definitely be well over any death toll by the time he knocks quietly at her door one evening, sometime between the end of dinner and "too late for polite company."
Tess peers through the keyhole to see who it is and takes a moment to grab a hoodie and pull it on over her tank top, hiding the scarred mess of her shoulder. She's spent much of her time over the past year hiding it, but now it feels even more prudent.
"Hey," she says, opening the door.
She smiles, but she looks plenty tired anyway; she bounces back slow these days.
"Hey," she says, opening the door.
She smiles, but she looks plenty tired anyway; she bounces back slow these days.
William comes back wanting them dead. No confusion, no tangle of sentiment—it feels like he left one world with their names poisoning his lips, came into this one with them still there. Tess and Kovacs. Arthur. Quill. The fucking cook. He takes to the halls, knife at his hip, hand on its hilt, her room number right there in his head. He imagines recreating every cut, prizing off fingernails until the sounds she makes are more animal than human. Until she fucking begs the way she invited him to.
He imagines twisting an arm behind her and throwing her overboard. He imagines slashing her open in the laundry room, the noise of the machines like a clattering heartbeat. He remembers her breaking his nose—the way he invited her to—and blotting the blood with one of Juliet's pillows. That's when he stops.
For three days he doesn't see her.
The afternoon of the fourth he goes down to the Brew. Ashamed that his excitement—that impatient quickening in his chest—when the mirror turns smoothly aside has gone nowhere. Ashamed that it seems only a faint echo of the triumph he'd been seized with the night he'd carved a treasure map from a man's back.
He descends the passageway slowly, some part of him recoiling—the space too narrow, the exit ever farther away—and another part scornful. The walls have a new coat of paint; he touches a finger to it to see if it's wet. Too see if she, like everyone else in this place, has shoved what happened out of her mind in favor of do-it-yourself denial.
He calls her name, listens to it bound down the stairs. It's a few more seconds before he emerges into the Brew proper, eyes going immediately to the bar.
He imagines twisting an arm behind her and throwing her overboard. He imagines slashing her open in the laundry room, the noise of the machines like a clattering heartbeat. He remembers her breaking his nose—the way he invited her to—and blotting the blood with one of Juliet's pillows. That's when he stops.
For three days he doesn't see her.
The afternoon of the fourth he goes down to the Brew. Ashamed that his excitement—that impatient quickening in his chest—when the mirror turns smoothly aside has gone nowhere. Ashamed that it seems only a faint echo of the triumph he'd been seized with the night he'd carved a treasure map from a man's back.
He descends the passageway slowly, some part of him recoiling—the space too narrow, the exit ever farther away—and another part scornful. The walls have a new coat of paint; he touches a finger to it to see if it's wet. Too see if she, like everyone else in this place, has shoved what happened out of her mind in favor of do-it-yourself denial.
He calls her name, listens to it bound down the stairs. It's a few more seconds before he emerges into the Brew proper, eyes going immediately to the bar.
Tess is midway through pouring herself a shot when she hears the door up the stairs, the faint but unmistakable sound of footfall on stone. The stream of liqueur wavers just slightly, threatening to cross over the glass's edge, and Tess cuts it off short, listening. She is not, at least in her own image of herself, jumpy. Just prepared.
For a half second, that's all it is. Preparedness, maybe some mild fear that it's Kovacs here for round two when she hadn't even been prepared for round one. Then her name on William's voice has her setting the bottle down on the bar, her fist wrapped tight around its neck. That's how he finds her, eyes on the foot of the stairs, waiting tersely. She isn't sure what her face is doing but she's sure it's not half as calm as she wants it to be.
The urge to be defensively flippant feels overwhelming, and beating that impulse down makes her feel strangled. She's used up every shred of good will she ever could have been offered, and there's none left to ask for.
"Well," she says. She opens her mouth to say about a hundred different things, but she just settles on a defeated: "Fuck."
For a half second, that's all it is. Preparedness, maybe some mild fear that it's Kovacs here for round two when she hadn't even been prepared for round one. Then her name on William's voice has her setting the bottle down on the bar, her fist wrapped tight around its neck. That's how he finds her, eyes on the foot of the stairs, waiting tersely. She isn't sure what her face is doing but she's sure it's not half as calm as she wants it to be.
The urge to be defensively flippant feels overwhelming, and beating that impulse down makes her feel strangled. She's used up every shred of good will she ever could have been offered, and there's none left to ask for.
"Well," she says. She opens her mouth to say about a hundred different things, but she just settles on a defeated: "Fuck."
Hey. I know you have something against me [ for no good reason! ] but I need some questions answered and can't find the kid that was like, the only slightly helpful person here.
I don't have anything against you as long as you're not being patronizing.
But sure, shoot.
But sure, shoot.
After Tess makes her post about helping the Barge with rationing, Arthur waits a few hours for the chatter to die down, and then swings around to knock on her door. The flood hit him hard, and he hasn't been out much beyond the usual rounds - and Tess has been busy too. They haven't talked much. Haven't talked about the versions of themselves who came from the same world.
It's about time, he figures, and she'll need something to distract her from food scarcity issues.
Tess has been a flurry of emotions, but by time she's worked her way through planning with some of the others, wardens and inmates alike, she's pushed her feelings down and settled hard into the work. There's a lot to prepare for.
When he knocks, she moves to the door, stepping over piles of cans and other dry goods she's had stored for well over a year. She opens the door like it might be someone coming to take it all, her body blocking the doorway, but the moment she sees it's Arthur, she relaxes again –– at least as much as she ever could. She steps back to let him in.
"Hey, Outlaw," she says. She searches his face. "You okay?"
He has been quiet, and his troubles feel immediately more concerning than her ancient ones.
When he knocks, she moves to the door, stepping over piles of cans and other dry goods she's had stored for well over a year. She opens the door like it might be someone coming to take it all, her body blocking the doorway, but the moment she sees it's Arthur, she relaxes again –– at least as much as she ever could. She steps back to let him in.
"Hey, Outlaw," she says. She searches his face. "You okay?"
He has been quiet, and his troubles feel immediately more concerning than her ancient ones.
What did you fucking do to me?
[ Yeah she's figured out the candy problem. ]
[ Yeah she's figured out the candy problem. ]
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