Ransom laughs in a way that echoes slightly off the vaulted ceiling. It traps the brittleness, though, if that undercurrent, the threat of fracture even reaches so high — if she wants to hear that she'll have to be paying attention to him and not the noise he creates around himself. "Jesus, calm down. You've never been dunked before?"
It's utterly belied by the angry scratch of his nails over his scalp, working the shampoo in as perfunctorily as he ever did at Norfolk with a line of half a dozen convicts waiting on the other side of the stall. Not that he didn't take as long as he needed, but if there was any pleasure to be had from the experience, that sucked it right out. His first real shower, bath, whatever in a year and he just wants it over with.
"I think we have enough paperwork between us, don't you?"
He doesn't give Marta the chance to answer, wrenching on the faucet and ducking underneath. If she's keeping track of his tantrum maybe she'll care to note that he only stays under long enough to rinse his hair, then the cadence of the stream changes as he does stand and the water keeps sluicing into the bath. He moves over to her, running his hand through his hair to flick away the water, and he brackets her in with his arms where she's sitting, pretty and wet and pissed. He wants to be immune to all of it but knows better by now. He's managing it.
"You don't know why I went in the water, Marta. You don't know every reason for what I do. You make it sound so beautiful and wise, but you're not right every goddamned time. And it's not your right. Unless you think it is." He searches her face for the indication that she disagrees, that she thinks what she did should give her unimpeded access to his split skull and chest. There's no echo anymore, his voice low enough to be a threat. But Christ help him, he's trying to explain. If she keeps it up he knows himself well enough to know he'll do whatever he has to to prove her wrong, and he'll tear himself apart to do it as much as her. "Just stop. You have to stop."
no subject
It's utterly belied by the angry scratch of his nails over his scalp, working the shampoo in as perfunctorily as he ever did at Norfolk with a line of half a dozen convicts waiting on the other side of the stall. Not that he didn't take as long as he needed, but if there was any pleasure to be had from the experience, that sucked it right out. His first real shower, bath, whatever in a year and he just wants it over with.
"I think we have enough paperwork between us, don't you?"
He doesn't give Marta the chance to answer, wrenching on the faucet and ducking underneath. If she's keeping track of his tantrum maybe she'll care to note that he only stays under long enough to rinse his hair, then the cadence of the stream changes as he does stand and the water keeps sluicing into the bath. He moves over to her, running his hand through his hair to flick away the water, and he brackets her in with his arms where she's sitting, pretty and wet and pissed. He wants to be immune to all of it but knows better by now. He's managing it.
"You don't know why I went in the water, Marta. You don't know every reason for what I do. You make it sound so beautiful and wise, but you're not right every goddamned time. And it's not your right. Unless you think it is." He searches her face for the indication that she disagrees, that she thinks what she did should give her unimpeded access to his split skull and chest. There's no echo anymore, his voice low enough to be a threat. But Christ help him, he's trying to explain. If she keeps it up he knows himself well enough to know he'll do whatever he has to to prove her wrong, and he'll tear himself apart to do it as much as her. "Just stop. You have to stop."