[Milliways Gym]

[2goodarms]

Curtis has started to develop a workout routine. Since his gym visits shifted from "occasional" to "nearly every day," he's taken to quiet observation whenever he's on one of the treadmills, watching the gym's other occupants to see what they're doing, cataloging all the exercises that don't involve two working arms. Some trigger a flash of oh, right, I remember that. Others...not really.

But, one at a time, he works them into his own circuit. Squats. Crunches. Jumps. More time at the heavy bag (his hand always wrapped properly nowadays). All of it's getting easier. He even figures out how to start working his way toward one-armed push-ups: just put his hands higher than his feet, like on a wall or a bench or something.

That's what he's focusing on today -- wall push-ups. It's the last thing on his agenda before he heads out, and damn, it's a strain to make it through the last few reps.

Comments

[2goodarms]

"Yeah," he murmurs again, quieter now. Using his stump, Curtis pins the book open against one leg so he can rub his good hand over his hair. "Guess that's another side of what I told you earlier. About wanting to kill Wilford for eighteen years."

And then -- now that he's accomplished that goal -- having no idea what else he could want. What else he could do.

[dejah_thoris]

This time, instead of using the tongs and hammer, Dejah uses her gloved hand to hold the metal in the red hot throat of the forge. She doesn't even have to turn her face away. A pale shimmer of blue light flares in front of her, protecting her from the worst of the heat.

She holds the plate until it glows and then carefully, with her hands, begins to form the metal. It's a gentle movement and gives her a lot more control, it seems.

"My whole life, before I met John, I spent every day fighting an enemy I didn't even know existed. After," Dejah gives a dry little laugh. "It took us another twenty five years to dig them out by the root. And I'm still half-convinced everyone I meet might be a Thern agent in disguise. Did I mention the part where they can make themselves look and sound like anyone?"

[2goodarms]

Swiftly, Curtis raises his attention from the book.

"Shit." Low. "No, you left out that part."

He folds the book closed to set it on the table, swinging his feet down in the same movement.

[dejah_thoris]

She gives a little half shrug, and moves to place the next set of plates on the bench, arranging them in order with the others. It's beginning to look like an arm.

"Yes. Well, I can scan for their technology, so I have ways of checking. But the fear still haunts me. That someone I know and trust will be in my chambers and I will see their face shift. I will see the mask fall away and my enemy will reveal himself, deep inside my defenses. Even when I know it's not a possibility, that fear never really goes away."

[2goodarms]

He doesn't say anything.

(He can see Wilford's smile again, so unexpectedly genial after years of Curtis building up a monstrous image of the man and his engine. He can hear Gilliam's croak of a voice: Don't let him talk. Cut out his tongue.

Was that why? Because Gilliam knew Wilford would talk about their collaboration, the deeply rooted agreements between tail and front?)

Actions often come easier than words. Curtis reaches out, touching Dejah's arm just above the glove.

[dejah_thoris]

At his touch, she goes still. She glances over at him, a quiet storm of emotion behind her eyes. She meets his gaze, and after a moment, that storm calms and recedes. The tension in her shoulders melts and a quiet smile emerges.

[2goodarms]

So many times, she's insisted Curtis can trust her. He's still pretty sure that was just to put him at ease, trying as she was to build a space where he could feel safe.

He wonders, though, if this was part of it, too. Insisting Curtis could trust her because she spent so much time not trusting people. She knows what it feels like, deeper than Curtis ever realized.

He returns the smile, faintly, and gives her arm a small squeeze of reassurance.

[dejah_thoris]

As her hands are occupied, she gives him a long blink in response, and turns back to finishing the last of this set of plates. Setting them aside to cool, she pulls the gloves off and lays them on the bench.

"Here." She takes the beginnings of the prostheses off the stand it's on and offers it to him. It's made of the same metal as the plates, but it's not as light.

[2goodarms]

His eyebrows lift. Curtis accepts the rudimentary arm -- rather gingerly, despite Dejah's earlier remarks -- and sets it across his legs.

Yeah. Shit. This is really happening, isn't it.

A tiny flicker of doubt tightens his chest. Curtis breathes out, shifting to bring his stump closer to the prosthesis. Just to get a better sense; drive it home a little harder.

[dejah_thoris]

She shifts so she can hold it for him, positioning the joint and the wrist in the proper alignment with his stump. None of the calculating engine or core is installed yet, so it's just a bit of machinery right now.

When she speaks, her voice is low, touched with that same quiet fire, but reverent at the same time. "What you see here -- all of this, and the nerve mapping net you saw earlier -- none of it would have been possible without reverse engineering their technology. I have always tried to take the -- the horrors that they spread, and turn them into something healing. I don't know, maybe it's my own small way of undoing all the damage they did. I just know it makes me feel like I'm still fighting them. That I'm driving back the darkness, one small piece at a time."

[2goodarms]

The doubt quiets. Vanishes.

She's put as much meaning into building this arm as Curtis had in losing the arm in the first place. Both of them, correcting past mistakes the best they can, both converging on this limb in such an unexpected way.

"You know," he says, softly, "I lost this trying to rescue someone."

[dejah_thoris]

Her eyes widen, and her head tilts to one side.

"Oh?"

[2goodarms]

He nods. It's a half-truth, like the last time missing limbs came up in conversation, but it's close enough to the truth to suffice.

"He was inside the engine. I didn't know how to stop the mechanics. So I stuck my arm in there long enough to get him out."

(Speaking of half-truths: he's still determined never to tell Dejah about the children Wilford took from the tail.)

[dejah_thoris]

"And you succeeded? In freeing him from the machinery?"

[2goodarms]

"Yeah." A slight smile, more pained now. "We got him out."

[dejah_thoris]

She sets the frame of the arm aside and rests her hand lightly on his left shoulder.

"And the engine took your arm. And then you, took down the engine. My people would say this is a war wound and worth it's own kind of metal."

[2goodarms]

"War wound," he echoes. The smile dims. Curtis reaches to touch her hand where it rests on his shoulder, unconsciously sliding his fingers through hers. "Yeah."

It always was a symbol of survival, to bear a missing limb.

[dejah_thoris]

She laces her fingers through his, works their hands together until they are palm to palm.

"It is what you make of it, Curtis. You took down a mindless beast by feeding it a piece of your own flesh. By feeding it your very body. And you did it to save your people."

She doesn't need to say how much she respects that. It's there in her words, in the way she's looking at him.

[2goodarms]

It's not quite like that open, trusting look Edgar's turned on him so many times. But god, combined with shit like feeding it a piece of your flesh, it's close enough to widen the cracks in his memory --

he shouldn't worship me the way he does

and for an instant, he can hear screams, and smell the unutterable filth that permeated the tail as those first weeks wore on. Curtis' throat works; he tightens his grip, lowers his head.

[dejah_thoris]

Her other hand lights on his cheek, and she presses her brow to his. She can feel the way the tension shifts in his body, just like the time before, when he'd almost bolted from her rooms.

She doesn't speak, doesn't remind him that he's safe here with her. She just lends the warmth of her body, her thoughts -- even if he can't feel them. She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long, slow exhalation.

[2goodarms]

She's not asking about it this time.

Good.

The memory recedes, like water drawing away from the lakeshore. His own breath's a little shaky at first, but quickly stabilizes.

"I'm okay," he whispers.

[dejah_thoris]

He's not okay, she knows that. But she knows, there's nothing she can do about that.

"Do you remember the letter I sent you?"

[2goodarms]

The crooked smile returns, firmer now.

"'Course I do."

[dejah_thoris]

"I meant what I told you. You can tell me anything. Not today but... when you're ready."

[2goodarms]

"I can't."

What would be the point, anyway? She has to have figured it out by now.

"Not this. I'm sorry."