2007-10-17: Maybe


Mara_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: Two brazen bitches engage in a slinging out whole heaps of honesty.

Date It Happened: October 17th, 2007


Uptown, NYC - Mount Sinai Hospital

One of the benefits that come from working for the Company manifests in the form of outstanding health coverage. This means that Mariska managed to find her way into surgery swifter than some of the others brought in to Mount Sinai in the aftermath of Central Park's magic show rout. It also means that she's afforded a private recovery room, where she's currently situated in an upright position, a wedge-shaped pillow keeping the pressure off of her stitched left shoulder, with her injured right arm slightly elevated and sporting a compression sleeve. Looks comfy, eh? Whatever they're pumping into her veins via IV seems to have sufficiently taken the edge off enough for her to at least feign sleep.

Mara's been in and out of Mount Sinai Hospital more times than she would care to admit, let alone recall, and she honestly can't decide whether she prefers it to the Company's medical wing at Hartsdale. She's dressed down today in jeans that hang loose around her hips - a size or two too large now - and a dark blue tee shirt with a distress screen print of the Union Jack. It isn't hard to find the room Mariska's recovering in. A flash of a badge and she's pointed in the right direction. She knocks on the door quietly before letting herself into the room. All she can do is manage a polite smile. She isn't quite sure what to say to the injured woman.

To employ a powerful understatement: Mariska has certainly seen better days. All things considered, these last few weeks have been chock full of just about as much physical and emotional trauma as she's capable of putting up with; it's a wonder she hasn't completely abandoned this mortal coil completely. The gentle knock at the door rouses her hazily and she utters a slightly slurred, «I'm awake…» before her eyes have fully fixed and focused on her visitor.

The Russian certainly wasn't unexpected, but it does cause Mara to wonder if her goodwill visit is a waste of time or not. She approaches one side of the bed, though she stays out of reach, just in case the other agent isn't so happy to see her. "Ivanov said you'd gotten worked over. But I hear you'll be just fine." Self-consciously, Mara brushes her fingers through her red bangs, re-adjusting them over her forehead, despite them falling into her eyes.

What was that? One pale green eye pinches into a squint while the other opens up a bit wider, taking in the sight of an attendant Mara with a measure of wearisome consideration. "What are you doing here?" she wonders, emboldened to be unapologetically brazen with liquid courage coursing through her from toes to tongue. "Where is Felix?"

"Just dropped by to check in on you. I suspect Felix is yet in Hartsdale." Mara shrugs. "D'ya mind if I sit down?" She's already reaching for the back of a chair to pull it toward her, though she doesn't just yet.

The inability to readily gesture with one's arms does a lot to maintain civility. Instead, Mariska just sort of bobs her head like a bird with a broken neck and then allows her gaze to wander from Mara to the door and then back again, almost as if she expected someone else to be with her.

"I'm flying solo today," Mara answers the unspoken question. She takes her seat and leans back, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm not sure why I'm here. I'd say I'm sorry for how things have been, but I'm not convinced you'd accept that."

Honestly, it's likely that Mariska might readily accept just about anything someone's willing to sell her today. The drugs, they are good, m'kay? The Russian woman merely observes her unexpected visitor with half-lidded eyes and replies slowly, "Well… are you? Sorry…?"

"It's all relative, I suppose." Mara shrugs. "I'm sorry I had to do what I've done, but if it all were to play out again and I got the same orders? I'd still follow them." That's honesty for you. "Am I sorry I helped Winters take your daughter? Yeah. Sorry that she had to be taken. Sorry that things went that way. But we all do what we think is for the best. Am I sorry that I've probably treated you unfairly in respects to Felix? Definitely. That's something I would do differently, given the opportunity."

That's a whole heap of honesty for you! It takes Mariska several silent moments to struggle through her twilight stupor and perform the necessary translations, going forward and then reverse. Initially, all she can manage to do is look dour and doubtful, chin inclined more toward her chest as she looks at Mara now down the edge of her pointed nose. But, then, she makes murmurs of redemption and utters dimly, "What is done… is done." She'd shrug her shoulders, if she could. "The best that you and I hope for… it is the future. We make… accord. Maybe. Or we do not." For all that she might appear to be lucid, odds are she isn't, really, so when what she spews ends up sounding more like a cryptic piece of crap than anything genuine, blame the drugs.

Mara's met Tamara Brooks. That is to say, Mariska's going to have to aim a lot higher to reach the bar that the runaway had raised. "I'll do my best to be nicer to you. If Felix thinks you're worth it, then you must be. He's got good taste in people."

"Nyet," the Russian readily retorts. She adds for emphasis, "He does not." Her green eyes momentarily gleam with a more lucid luster as she then amends, "…and that is part of problem." It's not entirely clear if that then means that she's declaring herself to be an unsavory sort or merely rejecting Felix's ability to judge 'good people'. "I don't like you," she drawls with her head cocked to one side. "But… that is because… you give me no reason. Maybe if you less bitch, I like you more." So, uh, how's that for honesty?

"Honey, if I were less of a bitch, I wouldn't be me." Mara grins and drapes her arms over the rests of the chair like a queen on her throne. "Didn't Felix ever tell you that they call me The Bitch at the department for good reason?" She shrugs, "Okay, so maybe he doesn't have good taste in people. But he likes me, so maybe that means there's something to like about you. I think under different circumstances, we may have started out as friends, Mariska. If you hadn't been a detainee and I hadn't been an agent. It kind of sows the seeds of mistrust early."

Mariska leans her head back against the pillows that prop her upright and closes her eyes. The conversation has taken its toll and she's growing drowsy by the drop as a little beep from the machine monitoring her IV heralds her next dose. Before she drifts off into drug-induced dreamland, she mynahs a word recently spoken as if it ought to be the last thing that either of them says on the subject: "Maybe."

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