I Will Contain You, Then Cast You Away [Semi-Open]

[vissernone]

WHO| Eva and Wallander, Eva and anyone with reason to be around the Peacekeeper HQ
WHAT| Eva sleeps with Wallander and brings him doughnuts.
WHEN| Week 2 of the Arena
WHERE| Wallander's house; Peacekeeper HQ
WARNINGS| Mentions of sex.

For Wallander

She wakes up next to Wallander again and slips out of the bed, donning a loose sheet as she searches for her clothing. Soon enough she's found her shirt and her pants and a rubber band to tie her hair in, even if it originally was used to keep bread in a bag fresh.

They've slept together at least ten times now. Normal people would consider it a relationship. Eva isn't sure she doesn't. That doesn't change her feelings on the matter, and her gaze as she looks at Wallander's bare back is both disdainful and a bit sad. She sits on the windowsill and stares at the moles and sweat on his back and the wrinkles on Kurt's face and the empty ringfinger. The morning light casting its way through the curtains makes him look washed out and not unlike a pastel sketch of a corpse. He snores and his hand roves the bed for the curve of her hip, but he doesn't wake when he finds only the sheets.

She gets up and heads to the kitchen. She does his dishes and she starts some coffee. She puts some makeup she keeps in her purse over the brand on her face. It doesn't do much, but it sends the message that she's trying.

She makes herself at home on his computer too.

-/-

Open

The next day, having spent the night alone at her own house, she pays a visit to Peacekeeper Headquarters. She's been coming in for regular meetings with some of the investigative officers as follow-up to the leads she gave them back during the interrogation. She has a reputation for being "prickly but cooperative" with the officers, which, she says, is a pretty outstanding performance given that they burned part of her face off.

Today she brings in a dozen doughnuts and instructs one of the desk jockeys to take it to Kurt's cube. She's sure only some of them will make it to him, and that the others will fill mouths that alternate between stuffing themselves and gossiping over it.

She doesn't mind that people know she's a Capitol canary; in fact, she all but flaunts it. Nor does she mind terribly that people know she's sleeping with Wallander, and if he's received any flack for it he's kept rather mum about it.

Besides. No one complains about fucking doughnuts.

Comments

[swedeandlow]

He woke up slowly - becoming aware of each part of him in turn, the sunlight flickering across his face to tease him into wakefulness. He groaned, stretching, his hand roaming over the sheets to find them warmed from the sun but not from another body. He was naked, and in bed, which in of itself was sign of something strange - he had a tendency to fall asleep fully clothed in his arm chair when he was alone. Once his brain kicked in, he remember why.

Eva had spent the night again.

It was strange, their little... well, relationship was the best word, he supposed, though it had never been said in as many words and he wouldn't dare to claim it to anyone else. The fact was, really, that sometimes she came and sometimes she didn't and he was never able to turn her away - not that he wanted to. Whatever he told himself (the first thing being, of course, that this at best was a severe conflict of interest), he couldn't quite resist it. The red nail marks on his back were all the proof he needed that it happened - and kept happening - and he wasn't really inclined to complain.

He didn't think he loved her, he mused to himself as he padded over to his closet, grabbing himself some clothes. He cared for her, certainly. Cared deeply for her. But half the time he saw her, he felt this overwhelming feeling of sadness, rather than joy - and he hoped - wished - that she took his company as some kind of comfort, at least.

He wandered back into the living room, hearing her on his computer. He wasn't the least bit worried. He had some games on there that she liked, he knew, and he knew that she didn't like to lie in, in the mornings. It was only fair that she entertained herself.

He padded to the kitchen, first - not exactly quietly - finding the coffee just finishing. He poured two cups, making sure hers was just as she liked it, before bringing them both to her.

"Morning," He murmured, leaning down to kiss her hair fondly as he set the cup of coffee beside her. (He'd been fooling himself, a little voice whispered. He did love her.)

"Sleep alright?"

[vissernone]

This is becoming routine, this ritual. This is becoming regular, which isn't to say that it's become automatic. She knocks on his door sometime after his dinner (usually late, usually something easily microwaved) as if the impulse has just struck her after a hard day. He lets her in.

Sometimes they talk. Talking is the most difficult part and, she knows, the part she can't just skip over. Each word from her mouth to his ears is a daredevil feat on the tightrope between honesty and poise. The reason this arrangement is working is because they are, in so many ways, similar people in the darkest, saddest places in their skulls. They're wounded and the stitches sew them together. He would be able to detect if she were to fake her grief.

She uses the sex as a means to end the conversation more often than anything else. It's a coda he never refuses, either out of guilt or lust or, most likely, some combination of the two.

Her hand comes up when he kisses her and she strokes her fingers over his morning stubble, keeping his lips there in her hair for a moment. "Good morning." She's switched from reading his email to something innocuous - browsing the weather for the upcoming week - back when she heard him stirring.

She's taken the armchair, which means he's relegated to the couch.

"I slept as well as I ever do." It's the one place she isn't able to guard herself, and once this month - only once - she's woken in a fright, his doughy fingers stroking her face as he tries to remind her where she is, as he whispers to her that she is safe.

She wraps a hand over the hot cup of coffee. A smile crosses her disfigured face. "Sugar, no cream? It's almost like we've done this before."

[swedeandlow]

He lets his fingers drift to her shoulder, squeezing gently, before retreating to the couch with his cup and sitting back, letting himself sink into the old piece of furniture. Everything in his apartment is old - bought when he first came to the capitol and never replaced. The fashions of them had been well out of date when he bought them, now they were practically retro again. Not that even then they would be fashionable - they were well worn and abused. His furniture, in fact, resembled him in more than a few ways.

He doesn't judge her for the nightmares. He actually felt relieved, when he realised what they were. It made her more human, somehow. He couldn't imagine anyone going through what she did - the arena, her son - without the nightmares to match. (His own are dark and dreary rather than scary.)

(In his own, he's always the monster.)

"I would claim it on my deductive powers, but I think that would ring rather false," he said mildly, offering her a slightly sleepy but fond smile as he raised his coffee to his lips. Still too hot to sip, but he knew he wouldn't be a fully functioning human being until he did so. "Give me a minute and I'll make us some breakfast. Eggs alright? Don't have much else in, but eggs and toast I can do."

[vissernone]

"Eggs sound wonderful." She has a tendency to take up his armchair like a cat, sprawling a little more than is necessary, certainly more than she would in public. In this case one of her legs is slung over the arm, revealing the ankle of a leg she shaved an hour before showing up on his doorstep.

She finds what she wants on his computer, then makes sure to cover her tracks, and wanders barefoot into the kitchen while he works on scrambling the eggs. There's mildew on the tile, scuffed carpet that's a little moldy. Eva can see Kurt's depression like a second skin on the surfaces here, mingling with the dust and sunlight.

She comes up behind him and, as he nudges the eggs with a spatula, rests her head on the back of his shoulder. It's a gesture that's as affectionate as it is clingy, and as he can't see he face it's a shame he can't see how little acting she has to do when she really wants to feel a body against her cheek.

Maybe she isn't being cruel, she thinks. Maybe she's providing a lonely man with a few moments of pleasure. Maybe she just doesn't care.

"What are you working on today? Nothing exciting, I hope."