Marc Russo (bluelined) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2017-02-15 22:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2020 [02] february, marc russo, victoria reed |
Who: Marc Russo and Torrie Reed
Where: The Bar
When: Evening of 2/5, after their messages
What: Torrie meets up with Marc on Valentine's Day, just for the hell of it. Things go places they don't anticipate them going.
Stepping through the doorway of The Bar, Torrie had begun to regret her anger fueled agreement to have drinks with Marc. He was a dick, she didn’t need to give him the time of day, and she definitely didn’t need another headache like the Walker’s conversation. But it had been oh so tempting to think about the possibility of telling him off to his face about that flower. Who was he to assume anything? She would have been happy if he hadn’t chosen the cowards way out and left without a backwards glance. She definitely wasn’t happy now that he’d decided to show his face again. Too fucking little too fucking late. “Russo.” And oh, if Torrie could have fit any more cool annoyance into his name, she would have. She’d almost thought about returning the rose to him even, but she’d left it sitting on her counter at the house. Returning gifts was for scorned girlfriends, and she sure as fuck wasn’t that. He grinned over at her from where he sat slouched in a booth, a half-full glass of whiskey set in front of him, the expression tinged with relief. Marc had been half-convinced she wouldn't show, after at all."Hey, Reed." “I’ll have a vodka on the rocks,” she directed at the bartender, ignoring the stupid grin on Marc’s face. “You can add it to his bill.” "You gonna bleed me dry for alcohol?" he asked once she took a seat in front of him. The Russo brothers were living paycheck to paycheck, transient as ever since they'd left Baltimore. It was weird to have to think about juggling money again, but if it meant real food and alcohol whenever he could help it, he'd make do. Most of the annoyance that Torrie had been sure was going to come out in blistering insults seemed content to simmer just under the surface as she scowled across the table at him. “You’ll pay for the first,” she returned. “It’s the least you can do after being such a fucking troll.” If he denied that or tried to play like that rose had been sincere, well, she wasn’t sure what her barely contained irritation would lead her to do next. "I can work with that." There were a lot of questions rattling around in his head as he studied her over the rim of his whiskey glass, trying to figure out which one he should lead with. After a moment he settled on: "What are you up to these days, Reed?" Something nonchalant, maybe, with only a miniscule possibility for fireworks and uproar. At least, he hoped so. Oh you know, trying to fucking survive, was not what she lead with. Maybe because she wanted Marc to see that she’d been trying to pull herself back up from nothing, and had been pretty damn successful about it. “I’m teaching music lessons, mostly,” she told him between sips of her drink, once it’d been placed on the table. “I’m opening a music venue next month, too.” Inwardly she had tried to match Marc’s level of nonchalance, but her pride seeped in, and Torrie knew she sounded like a fucking proud parent or some shit like that. But goddamnit, it had been complicated and stressful to get going and she was pleased with the effort she’d put in. "Yeah?" Marc smiled, even though her own expression remained flat, dispassionate; it was impossible to overlook the fact that Torrie was doing well for herself, and as much as she hated him, he didn't exactly want her to suffer. "Better off than me, that's for sure." A small bit of flattery, maybe, but also a truth that he didn't need to deny or ignore. If they'd stayed like she had, surely he'd be on a better path than this? “You’re not living in the tunnels, are you?” She abruptly cut herself off, annoyed that she sounded concerned. “You’d be a fucking idiot, if you were. Nobody lives down there anymore.” Actually, she thought the government had cleared the tunnels out, but she’d moved in with Lita before that might have happened. "No." The answer came as quickly as she'd stopped herself, paired with a broad shake of his head. "Got a temp place with Leo." Marc didn't think twice about omitting where, exactly, the apartment was located; the two of them seemed to be getting along, though those moments hadn't ever used to be so few and far between, and he didn't want to bring up anything that'd threaten the relative calm in which they sat. "At least Austin's got that much going for itself these days." “That we get to pay rent?” Torrie returned, more harshly than she’d intended, but sometimes, and maybe especially because Marc knew what living with the Ghouls had been like, it was hard to call bygones on the years that she had struggled. “Yeah, I guess that’s progress.” She smiled and fought back the cynicism. She’d been making progress lately, she didn’t want one conversation to derail that. "That we don't have to live in the fucking tunnels to get by," Marc corrected. Despite the profanity, which was all too easy to lapse back into around her, there was no real anger or irritation in his voice. "Just saying." “Yeah, okay. That too.” She gave him a thin lipped smile. “You’re not planning on staying?” He’d said his place was temporary, and sure that covered a multitude of things, but top of that list was an intention to leave eventually. "I don't know." he took another sip of whiskey and shrugged his shoulders, a full-body motion. "We couldn't afford a real place yet, but the plan's to be able to soon. As far as staying here…" Marc hadn't yet found a reason to really call Austin home yet, but at the same time he wasn't sure where else he'd go. And even if he left for the rest of the country, how would he even get there if he couldn't afford much? “Denver’s probably alright,” she offered. “Might be fucking expensive. But if you’re not planning to stay here…” she shrugged, not sure how to respond to that. She was still a little pissed off at him for leaving the first time. “It’s better than going north to Chicago.” granted, she couldn’t say that for sure. "Probably real fucking expensive." Marc leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out, and tapped her on the foot with his own. "You asking because you're ready for me to head out, or because you want me to stay?" he asked, following the question up with a small grin. He was pushing his luck as always when it came to Torrie, but he never could help it. "I'm getting some mixed messages here." Pursing her lips and tensing her jaw, Torrie looked at Marc for a few long seconds. “You know, you make me want to punch you,” she told him. “I was fucking fine until you came back, then you just waltz right the fuck back in, and I don’t know how the hell to deal with that.” She huffed, then took a long drink as he watched her silently, wondering if he'd just set off a time bomb. “I’m angry at you, but fuck it, I think I’d be angrier if you left again.” And that was the problem, really. “Happy?” Marc's grin widened just enough to firmly settle into smugness. "Yeah. I am." He gestured at the jukebox over in the corner, the likes of which he hadn't seen in years. It was a risk, one step closer to potentially detonating the anger that always seemed to be simmering under the surface when it came to Torrie, but it was Valentine's Day, he'd been sexiled out of his own house, and it was one of those nights where the exhaustion of his life was too much to bear. "Dance with me, Reed," he added -- a statement, not a question, almost as though the finality of it would help chase away memories he didn't want to think about. Torrie crossed her legs and folded her arms, her eyebrows climbing higher at Marc’s command. “Fuck you,” she snapped, but for some reason there just wasn’t any real bite to it. “You’d better not step on my toes,” she amended, relaxing her posture, then she unfolded her limbs and stood before Marc could do something charmingly stupid like offer his hand. “I swear to god,” she warned, taking one last swallow of her drink before she set the glass back on the table. “If you do it’s the last fucking time that I do anything you ask me to, Russo.” "You done complaining yet?" He followed suit, draining his glass quickly, then led the way over to the modest dance floor, marveling all the while at how normal this felt, drinks and dancing. For once, Austin really felt like something normal. Marc was cautious at first, allowing a distance between them to settle even as he placed his hands on her back and pulled her in, half-expecting her to bite his head off any minute now. "I'm actually a pretty great dancer. You'll see." “Everyone says that,” she countered dryly. “It’s all ‘I’m a fucking great dancer!’ and then ER visits with broken toes.” Torrie was smiling a little through most of what she said though, so it lost some of the effect that she’d intended. “Good thing my roommate is a doctor, so I’ll only have to explain that shit to one person.” She stepped in a little closer because they weren’t at some middle school dance and he reflectively tightened his hold on her, wrapping his arms around her waist instead of simple contact. “Or she’ll be so relieved it’s not another fucking shoulder dislocation she won’t ask.” He laughed, a brief worry line settling between his eyebrows. Marc wasn't sure what confused him more; the casual mention of such a relatively serious injury like it was a goddamned papercut or how comfortable this felt despite the palpable hostility that seemed to still radiate around Torrie nonetheless. Life in the tunnels hadn't exactly allowed much room for closeness of any time. "The fuck, Reed? When'd you do that?" “A couple of times,” Torrie explained, still making it sound like it was nothing. It was easier for her to process that way. “I got into with one of the Los Nahuales, they were fucking drug runners after the Dogs gave it up, and then I dislocated it again during a zombie incident at Walker’s.” and that was about as Cliff Notes as she could get. “I have fucking shitty luck.” "Sounds like it." He'd never been injured to that degree, since apparently his luck swung in the exact opposite of Torrie when things had been normal and when they'd been shot to hell, but he could imagine the pain. Considering how upbeat the current song was, it probably juxtaposed real well with the screwed-up look on his face. "Don't tell me I missed you getting bitten, too, over the last couple of years." Torrie laughed humorlessly, almost soundlessly. “No,” she assured, “my luck’s not that shitty.” She left out the part where Viktor Fucking Scherbatsky had saved her ass before that could happen. She didn’t want to go into that complicated story, or how she felt like she owed him just a little bit. Maybe it was just a hunch, but she had a feeling that Marc wouldn’t understand. “But since you said it, the universe will probably decide that’s the next fucking thing,” she added as a joke. “I’ll walk out the doors tonight and get mobbed by fucking walkers.” Unlikely, since the city had put a lot of safety precautions in place. “And you’ll have to live with that.” "You gotta head out soon if you want to make it before 'curfew.'" Marc had assumed she wouldn't be staying all that long, anyway, considering how their last run-in had gone. Then again, this was a much more docile Torrie than he'd seen in a long time. Who knew which version he'd get in the next five minutes? It was a fun game, oddly enough. She kept him on his toes. "Let me piss you off again, so you have enough incentive to ditch my ass and get yours bitten." And with that, he skimmed his hand down the small of her back, as though he were aiming for grabbing her ass. Torrie’s eyes narrowed, but not for the reason that Marc would probably assume, and she thought about stomping on his toes, but settled on grabbing at his wrist instead. “Is that all you’ve got? One lameass attempt to grab my ass?” She raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. "Just testing the waters." He made no move to pull his arm out of her reach, though, or hide the giant grin that'd popped up on his face. Where was the fun in that? “If you’re going to do shit like that, mean it or don’t fuck with me at all.” The thought that she could just walk away hadn’t quite escaped her yet, but if she left it would feel like admitting some kind of defeat to Marc, and no way in hell was she going to do that. ‘I’m not some fucking shrinking violet that’s going to storm off because you fucked with my feminine sensibilities.” She smirked because she wasn’t actually pissed at all. “You could just say you want me to leave, Russo.” "Maybe I don't want you to leave," he replied easily. Torrie was as much of a whirlwind as ever, and for some reason he found he missed that kind of unevenness. "I mean, you probably don't want to get stuck in here after curfew, so you're gonna have to go eventually, but." He paused for a moment, thinking, before adding: "And who says I didn't mean wanting to grab your ass?" Huffing, Torrie just barely contained the desire to roll her eyes. “Why would you? The flower was just to fuck with me,” she retorted, fighting hard not to feel like she was standing on uneven ground suddenly. There wasn’t a clock she could see, but she guessed she was already hovering right around curfew as it was. The smart thing would have been to shut down their conversation, gather her shit and leave. But then she’d be left wondering if he’d been serious or not. He was probably just being a jackass again. "I mean--" Marc cut himself off abruptly, a look of confusion flickering over his face now that she was pushing him to go further than levity. It wasn't as though they'd never had a serious conversation before, but the last time they'd had one they'd both been underground, looking to set the city aflame. And sure, he'd meant the failed gesture at the time, but explaining it was proving to be a challenge in and of itself. "It's not as though I have a big crush on you," he said bluntly, knowing that any other approach would never fly with Torrie and he couldn't leave the conversation on a cut-off, pathetic fragment of a sentence. "But I don't -- If you wanted me to grab your ass, I would be pretty happy about doing so." It sounded like a fucking cop out to even his ears, but what else was he supposed to say? She laughed. Maybe not the best response, but the way he replied struck her as funny. “Crushes are for twelve year olds, Russo,” she told him, a glint in her eye. “I wouldn’t break your fingers if you tried it. It’s not like I’ve got better offers waiting anywhere else.” He could take that however he wanted; she wasn’t desperate for anything, but she would admit to being curious. Even if it was only because the conversation had sent her down a previously unexplored rabbit trail. "Yeah?" He raised his eyebrows as he considered her, taking her statement as tacit permission to look at her features and challenge his mind to see her a different way. "Me either." “So it’s really up to you.” They were already standing close, but Torrie moved closer, like she had started a game of chicken and was just waiting for Marc to blink. "Interesting." It was a natural reaction to pull her in closer against him with the hand still pressed against her back, both of them seeming to size up the other and wonder if it would be worth treading into unfamiliar territory. And if it was any other woman than Torrie Reed, he'd rack his mind for some sort of charming line or compliment, aiming to make her smile. But it was Torrie Reed, someone he respected and feared in equal measure, so Marc settled for leaning in and brushing his nose against hers: a gentler motion than the half-hearted ass grab he'd tried just a few minutes ago. His voice lowered and a smirk appeared on his lips. "We may as well give it a shot. See how it feels." “Might as well,” she agreed, matching Marc’s smirk. Instead of waiting for him to make the next move, Torrie kissed him. Maybe a little more forthrightly than was typical, but not without any finesse. It might have been a while since she’d kissed anyone, but she still knew the mechanics pretty well. “I’ll write mean reviews on the bathroom walls if you’re really shitty,” she joked once she needed air again. He leaned his forehead against hers as he, too, caught his breath, an amused smile fixed on his face. “Warn anyone else off of making my mistakes.” "Not like we're strangers to mistakes," Marc reminded her, his smile broadening again. This hadn't been what he'd expected out of the evening, but it was a hell of a lot better than being on his own. The look in her eye seemed to promise something more, too, and he was looking forward to figuring out just what that was. Laughing, short and sharp, she leveled a smirk at Marc. “God, you know how to charm a woman, don’t you Russo.” If she’d been told that the night was going to take the turn it did, she wouldn’t have believed it, but it was hard to deny when it was staring her in the face. “Make yourself useful and see if they’ve got a room or something.” Might as well go all in if she was going to walk the edge like she was. She pushed him back by his shoulders, not with angry force, but to back up her suggestion. “Before I change my mind.” |