Upstairs, room 1001

[2goodarms]

It's late. Maybe. Late enough for Curtis to dim the lights in his and Edgar's room, anyway; he's been trying to follow the cues of the rest of the building, switching off the lights if he notices they're dimmer downstairs, or turning them on if bright light from the hallway starts to seep under their door.

It feels like controlling the movement of the sun. Controlling some small chunk of the world.

He doesn't know if he likes it.

But if he doesn't do it, it makes the time distortions feel even worse, so he'll just have to suck it the hell up.

The ambient noise on either side of them is all well and good, but hearing another person breathing an arm's length away calms Curtis way more than he expected. While he's not asleep yet, he's blinking drowsily at the ceiling, not much longer for the waking world.

Comments

[2goodarms]

"Yeah."

He fishes out the letter, eyeing the elegant script spelling his name as he swings his legs into the hammock.

And then he eyes Edgar.

[hate_gettin_older]

... he's being too casual, maybe, considering Curtis's rapid exit with Dejah. Overcompensating.

"So," he says in the best not-suspicious-at-all tone he can manage, "what was that about then?"

[2goodarms]

Edgar's not-suspicious tone, it should be noted, comes across as highly suspicious if you've basically raised the guy.

"Nothing," he says. "She's a friend. Helped me out when I got here."

He's still watching Edgar, folded note in hand.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Mm." Edgar watches the ceiling, in turn.

"She seems ... classy."

[2goodarms]

"Yeah." Another soft sigh. "That gonna be a problem?"

[hate_gettin_older]

A shrug, still looking away. "I dunno."

His eyes flick over toward Curtis, and then away again.

[2goodarms]

Well. Better than the yeah, it's a huge fucking problem Edgar telegraphed earlier.

"Okay," he says.

And then he rolls up the letter, leans the few feet to Edgar's hammock, and smacks him across the back of the head with the paper.

"And ask before you touch my stuff, asshole."

[hate_gettin_older]

The ow! is more protest than actual pain. And it's all the protesting he's going to do, as there's no point in denying it; he rubs the spot and says "Yeah, yeah," somewhere between sulky and contrite.

A beat.

"So you gonna fuckin read it or what?"

[2goodarms]

"Sure you don't wanna sum it up for me instead?" he snipes -- more good-natured than not -- and finally unfolds the letter.

In short order, the humor fades, Curtis growing still as he reads.

I have done things no civilized person should have to do, she says. I see you, she says, and he doesn't know whether to shrink back from the scrutiny or embrace it; doesn't know if what she says is true, or clouded by comparisons to a man Curtis never met.

When he reaches the bottom, he starts over again, slower now. Curtis holds part of himself in reserve this time, studying the letter as Edgar might have studied it.

[hate_gettin_older]

He shifts uncomfortably, resettles himself.

"Couldn't read most of it," he mumbles, into the silence. "She goes on."

[2goodarms]

A tiny snort, despite himself. "Yeah."

(And she signed it with four titles. Jesus, no wonder Edgar was prickly.)

Distracted, Curtis goes on, "They've got a lot of books here. If you wanna learn to read better, we could probably do it."

[hate_gettin_older]

(That snort is a little heartening, for some reason.)

"I can read just fine," he objects with some dignity. "Just not fast. I only had like forty seconds."

[2goodarms]

"Oh, well next time I'll walk a little slower for you."

Deadpan, as he folds the letter closed and tucks it to his chest.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Thanks ever so."

His own dryness is undercut somewhat by the glance he gives the letter, and a slight fidget.




"What'd she say?"

[2goodarms]

Quiet: "Just picking up a conversation we had earlier."

He shrugs. It's his turn to watch the ceiling.

"Explaining some things."

[hate_gettin_older]

A conversation they had earlier. Something about that is deeply uncomfortable; a conversation Curtis had, about something important, that he didn't even know was happening.

"Yeah?" He keeps his voice low as possible, trying not to sound as truculent as he's feeling.

[2goodarms]

Curtis glances over. "Yeah," he says. "I mean -- she's from the front. She gets that. But where she's from, the front sounds like it actually gives a shit about the tail."

Or at least Dejah does.

He taps the note. "She gets her hands dirty trying to help people."

[hate_gettin_older]

His first impulse is to scoff, but --

When we get there, Curtis used to say, we'll be different.



"You believe her?" he says, and it's much more cautious than incredulous.

[2goodarms]

"Maybe," Curtis murmurs. "So far she hasn't tried to pull anything."

A slight smile forms.

"She's even making me a new arm."

[hate_gettin_older]

"You're shitting me," says Edgar, sitting straight up. "Seriously?"

[2goodarms]

"Yeah, seriously." He scratches the back of his head. "Last time we talked she was taking measurements and shit. She's got this technology that's way ahead of anything we got."

[hate_gettin_older]

He swallows.


"... What's she asking for it?"

[2goodarms]

Silence, for a long beat.



"Nothing." His voice starts to bend, taking on that note Edgar heard the day he arrived, before it snaps back into place. "Just somebody to talk to. Her husband died something like -- I don't know."

He draws his thumb across the note, a slow back-and-forth.

"I think she's lonely."

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar is not at all sure how he feels about that angle.

"So how come she ran off, when ...?"

[2goodarms]

Curtis cuts off that line of inquiry with a quick shake of his head. "Long story," he says, and rolls over so he can stretch down and set the note on the floor. "It's handled."