“i would say i told you so, but i think the sentiment might be lost on you.” pre-spyverse dimfa
“I would say I told you so,” Dmitry told her, pulling a needle through her skin. “But I think the sentiment might be lost on you.”
Marfa has been biting down on his leather belt he had given her earlier, but now she spits it out, and it bounces off his forehead. “Don’t be a dick, Mityok.”
He glances up at her, those stupid strands of dark hair obstructing his hazel eyes. Definitely more brown than green in the current dim lighting.
His face holds a smirk but he doesn’t say anything more. That annoys her more, the way he holds back when she’s on the edge. That he can recognize that about her.
She’s gotten into this business because of her ability to be unknowable. Marfa hates his ability to tear down that facade.
“You’re good at this,” she says, mostly to get out of her own thoughts.
Dmitry’s tongue has slipped out, the top of it pressed between his teeth. He finishes sewing her up, but his hand remains on her forearm. “My father taught me.”
Marfa can only imagine the circumstances that could lead to that.
“Ah moments you can pass down too your own children one day.”
He snorts, handing her a flask of vodka. The make do painkiller of the trade. “In another life, perhaps.”
They’re more likely to die in the nine months it takes to grow a child than they are to grow old and raise children.
Another I told you so from the universe.
She twists his shirt in her hand and pulls him in for a kiss.
There’s a loud popping noise above her head, and Dmitry looks up, his chin above the top of her head, his arm hovering above her back.
She’d call in protective, if she were familiar with such gestures.
“We should go,” he says, his voice low.
“You just want to see where that kiss leads,” she manages to tease, taking a gulp from the flask before tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.
Dmitry helps pull her up, careful with the freshly stitched wound on her arm.
He flashes a smile at her, all charm and dimples, “Always.”
Instead of allowing him to let go of her hand, she tightens her grip on it. He doesn’t lose a step in response.
They manage to get back out to the grimy Moscow street. The street light closest to them is out.
“We should retreat for the night,” she sighs, as they stick to the shadows.
Dmitry squeezes her hand lightly, “You should probably clean that better.”
There’s going to be a scar, no matter what. It’s a hastily made stitching in the dark. Should probably avoid infection at least.
“I don’t have a first aid kit.”
He doesn’t call her on the lie. “You can come back to my place.”
Marfa nods, not really having to say anything. It’s how most of their missions together seem to end and it’s best not to look too closely at that.
