Re: Log: The Cat - Cat/Matt
[He knew it was true. Cat could have practically anyone she wanted. Had this man torpedoed his chances by taking a step too far? Hard to say, but he believed her.
Who was he fooling? He'd go to Russia. If she was going, he was going. He'd never realistically let her go back to that place alone, and the urge to see it again seemed inexorable. If it was a catastrophe, at least he wouldn't have to keep wondering if the place was even real.
He didn't know if he was getting drunk or high, but the two seemed to be working together to at least take the edge off, just a little. He didn't have a lot of expertise in the purity of weed. He had a vague memory of trying very hard to get drunk somewhere in Germany. It had taken more than one bottle of schnapps to do the job, and someone had eventually dragged him to bed. Why had he been drinking? Because of the day. Some sniper blasted to oblivion in an opposing nest, and a bullet wound that had healed much too quickly, and the memories of the lab, just barely left behind then. If he'd known what came next, he would have been drinking even harder.
He liked talking about her, thinking about her, examining her from every angle. He liked feeling as if he understood her, even if she didn't. He liked feeling as if she understood him, even if she liked to manipulate him, sometimes. He didn't like thinking about the past, or the trickle of memories that came on faster all the time. These were things he didn't require, better left in the dust. He wanted to be here in this room, standing close enough to take her boots off, and nowhere else.]
Calm down from what? [His voice could still grate sometimes, just a little, cracking at the edges because it didn't get used enough. It wasn't nearly as bad as it had been when he first came to this town, but it was still there, occasionally.
He swallowed another shot, but he paused before pouring out again this time, setting his glass next to hers. That feeling, that irrational flare of anger, it didn't go away when she asked why he suddenly cared.] That was different. [He realized what she was gesturing for and produced the lighter again, sparking a fresh flame, dropping the lighter on the bar when he was done, flattening it under his palm. His indignation was raw, palpable.] Because Steve's different. This man, his father. What he did. Doesn't bother you? Was it for information? [That could, at least, make sense to him. It seemed he did hold grudges after all, under that struggle for placidity when he was at his worst. And maybe he could be jealous, even though it made no sense.] His father did those things to save his own skin. It doesn't matter how noble he acted, he still did what he did, and now his son's in research. Pretty - fucking convenient. [He got fluid when angry, despite the hitch at the end, almost a stutter. He reached for the bottle.]