2007-12-02: Transitions


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: Directly after Deliverance and directly before Matriarch Meets Patriarch. It's the transition.

Date It Happened: December 2nd, 2007


Queens, NYC - Felix's Apartment

Felix nearly knocks heads with Misha as he stoops for the card, but steps back enough to let her retrieve it without the coconut noise occurring. «What? What is it?» he says, looking around hastily, hand already creeping for the gun under his suitjacket.

No need for the gun, as Mariska explains somewhat cryptically, "Somewhere we can find help." She then takes Felix's hand and embarks on taking the long way home, leading him back up six flights of stairs.

Felix lets his hand fall to his side, and permits her to lead him back up to their little flat. "Help with what?" he asks, rather suspiciously.

It isn’t until they're back into the apartment proper that Mariska feels forthcoming but, even then, her willingness to go into detail seems lacking. «Help for our little girl,» she says, disappearing in to the kitchen again, which was apparently where she'd previously been before her spontaneous trip down to the mailbox was taken. There's half a pot of water on the boil and mostly peeled potatoes sitting in a metal bowl on the countertop. A few shavings seemed to have strayed from their catch and litter the floor beneath one of the chairs at the wee dining set.

Felix eyes her, at that. «I……I don't know that I understand,» he admits, shrugging off his overcoat and hanging it up, following it with his suit jacket, before unbuckling the shoulder holster. Like a gun-toting Mr. Rogers, really - same routine every day. Only no sweaters.

«Nevermind,» she says, turning up the heat on the stovetop and flicking on the faucet in order to add more water to the pot in which she obviously intends to boil potatoes before giving them a good mash. «Sit down. You want something to drink?» Oh, and, speaking of… Mariska suddenly remembers the glass of scotch left forgotten on the table, no longer on ice but rather just watered down. She's quick to dump it out in the sink and let the glass stay at the bottom, discarded.

«Just soda,» he says, quietly. But he advances on Misha with that motion that's weirdly like a stalking cat's, like he's afraid she'll startle and just pop out. «No. What's this Pinehearst Company?» he wonders, keeping his tone mild, even as he puts an arm around her waist.

Having gone back to peeling the very last potato, Mariska has both hands occupied and can therefore only then in to Felix as he comes in to catch a cuddle. «I don't really know,» she confesses after a thoughtful pause. «But, someone said they could help us get her back.»

«Who's someone?» Fel wonders, even as he nuzzles the nape of her neck. Man, this part of the marriage is just the best. «And why would they? An adjunct of our employer's?»

There's another extended pause in Misha's replies that comes complete with a pause in her work, paring knife held tight in her right hand while her left keeps the bowl steady. Then again, maybe the inquisition might be able to wait until after she's unarmed? Just a thought. Of course, the nuzzling is probably to blame. Not that she's complaining. Sighing, sure, but not complaining. «I told you… I don't know. But, I want to find out.»

Felix murmurs, gently, «Me, too. I wonder if this is a test of our loyalties, or a blind from the Bureau…» He sets his hands on her hips, lightly, even as he mouths the line of her throat, breath warm just below her ear.

There's a muted clatter as the little paring knife tumbles in to the bowl, finding a bed in potato peels. Disarmed. That's one way to do it. Mariska's closed her eyes and allowed herself to temporarily forget the events of the last confusing hour… as well as the previous seven years or so. Is this what she's really been missing for so long? Right now, it really seems likely. She murmurs something most likely meant to be encouraging beneath her breath and cranes her neck all the way back until suddenly she's struck with an alarming flashback — some sensation or smell has triggered a memory, not her own, to manifest — and she flinches, abruptly pulling away.

It has him stepping back, too, hands coming up in an approximation of that 'Don't shoot' position. «What?» he wonders, eyeing her, trying to keeps his tone from a complete snap. «What's wrong?»

With a hand brought up to her forehead in an attempt to shield her eyes from the suddenly blinding light of the kitchen fixtures, she exhales heavily and replies, «Nothing… nothing…» It couldn't be more obvious that this was far from the truth but she just can't seem to find the words to explain the sort of sabotage that her mind has been subjected to.

Felix's expression is pleading. «What happened? Are you sick?» He reaches out, laying a tentative hand on her arm.

Not physically. (Not yet, anyway.) Misha doesn't pull away from the touch but rather goes exceptionally still. She unveiled her misty eyes and then replies, «I saw you… with him… in a kitchen…» Oh. That. Surely, Felix must remember that moment, right? God forbid she be forced to describe in further in order to somehow differentiate events.

It takes him a second, but he does understand. And then promptly blanches and lets his hand fall. «Oh. Oh, God. I'm sorry. He showed you that?» It's immediately followed by the scarlet of impotent anger and shame. Hard to believe the contrast between the calm man who comes home so docilely every evening, and the assortment of images Paul's chosen to share. What's past is past, right?

Mariska is at a loss. While any woman is apt to contend with a heart full of wild emotions on a day to day basis, she's contended with more than her share of conflict today and has yet been simultaneously deprived of the outlet that she had previously used to purge herself of what residual feelings she could no longer contend with. In truth, their marriage bed has been somewhat strange company of late — awkward and infrequent for all the wrong reasons. Was the honeymoon over already? The fingers of her right hand curled into a fist and suddenly came slamming down onto the tabletop, hopefully provided enough shock to allow her some further distance from Felix in order to extricate herself from the suffocatingly small kitchen. It's time to be elsewhere. Get some air, maybe.

Fel just bites his lip, and rather ostentatiously steps out of the way. Not as if she couldn't just pop right out if she no longer wanted his company, but there's no point in pushing the issue. Not with his face still that color.

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