2goodarms | [Daemon AU] first meetings, revisited

[Daemon AU] first meetings, revisited

They've been here...he isn't sure how long. A couple days, maybe. Someone took him to the infirmary to bandage his arm and clean up the cuts littering his face and hand; unthinking, the doctor tried to shoo Joanna away, and -- taboo be damned -- they were so furious that she almost sunk her teeth into his arm.

(Joanna wasn't supposed to be here at all after the explosion ripped them apart. Like hell is anyone going to separate them, even if only by a measure of two feet.)

She would've gone for his daemon, but barely anybody here seems to have a daemon. A low-level horror built up around them like radio static when they realized what they were seeing. But all the daemon-less people act like nothing's wrong. It's not intercision -- their daemons don't exist at all, like they're hidden so deep inside them that they'll never be born. To most of Milliways, Curtis and Joanna are the bizarre ones.

It's almost enough for him to stop noticing how relaxed everyone is. How nice the bar is. How it's like someone picked up the entire Front and dropped it into a single room, with everything anyone could ever want, no questions asked, no payment necessary.

Almost.

For now, they're sticking to a couch by the fireplace, Joanna curled tight in Curtis' lap as they watch the bar in silence.

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A weird cognitive dissonance bubbles up, hearing her lament something as excessive when her poise still makes Curtis and Joanna think Front. Joanna leans into Iudaan as he passes by, humming softly; Curtis chances a lopsided smile as he says, "Sure, yeah."

Which is about when some dust goes up Joanna's nose, and she sneezes hard enough to make Curtis jump with residual shock.

"Oh goodness," Iudaan drawls, turning sharply. "I'm so sorry. It gets everywhere. There's nothing one can do."

Dejah's hand lights on Curtis's side. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm..."

As Joanna paws at her nose, Curtis covers his face with the towel and lets out an enormous sneeze of his own.

"We're good," Joanna manages with a weak laugh. "S'okay."

Iudaan chuffs a soft amused sound in return, but Dejah still seems intently concerned.

"Goddess, I'm so sorry. Perhaps we should go and bathe first."

Iudaan touches his nose to Joanna's again. "Are you sure?" His voice is low and genuinely worried.

"Yeah, yeah, it's just dust, it's fine, don't worry about it." Joanna sniffles, manages to suppress one last sneeze, and nudges Iudaan under the chin. "We're good."

Curtis nods agreement as he scrubs his face.

Iudaan's chin drops around her neck and he gives her a little hug. A moment later, he's affectionately washing her head again.

Dejah's chin drops and she watches Curtis from beneath long dark lashes.

"It's so pervasive when we're in the field, I just spit red mud and barely notice it. I come home with sand everywhere. And I do mean everywhere."

"...I can imagine," says Curtis, dryly, as Joanna does her level best not to snicker like a twelve-year-old. "We, uh, we didn't get any sand in the tail. Dust, yeah. No sand."

"No dirt, no plants, no nothin', either," remarks Joanna.

Dejah gestures for them to join her and Iudaan at one of the corner booths. It's quieter there, a little darker, and there's plenty of room for the daemons, either on the benches or beneath the table itself. One of the rats sees her coming and brings a large pitcher of water, with two glasses.

Iudaan snuffles gingerly at Joanna's head and then stands, shifting his four front paws. "Come, sit with us. We want to know more."

"If you're willing, that is. I don't mean to press you. It's so good to see you again."

The last bit spills out in a rush and she looks a little embarassed that she said it.

Curtis blinks, caught off-guard. Joanna looks briefly thrown as well; she pauses at Curtis' side, exchanging a puzzled look with him before they follow Dejah and Iudaan.

"Because we're interesting, right?" says Curtis, no less dry than before. (But maybe a little more amused. Just a touch.)

Why does she care so much? It's fucking weird.

Dejah's eyes go a little wide. "Um, yes?"

Iudaan chuffs out a wry laugh. "Interesting, yes. That's it."

Curtis shakes his head, exchanges another yeah, I don't get it, either look with Joanna, and gamely slides into one side of the booth. In the same movement, he bends down to scoop up his daemon with his remaining arm. She slips from his grasp once she's high enough and plops into the seat next to him.

"I thought you were married to a guy from Earth for forty years," he says.

Dejah slips into the other side, and Iudaan frets for a moment. He wants to be near Joanna, it's clear, but he remembers clearly how Curtis withdrew from his scrutiny. He looks like he might choose the floor, but at the last moment, decides seeing them both is more to his liking. He moves so lightly, it might be levitation, and settles beside her on the booth's bench.

"I was, yes." She begins, fiddling idly with a napkin before suddenly remembering there's water to be poured. She fills his glass first and slides it across, and then fills her own. "But that was a long time ago. He lived a very long life for a human, and refused our offers to extend his life beyond its natural length."

Iudaan growls a little in the back of his throat. "He always was a stubborn bastard, him and Rebecca both."

"Sounds like our kind of guy," says Joanna, very softly. She rests her head on the table, eyes on Iudaan.

Curtis accepts the glass with a nod of thanks. At a loss for anything to say, he downs a mouthful of water -- and then a few more gulps in rapid succession as he realizes just how fucking thirsty that workout made him.

"Yes, well..." Dejah hides her shy smile by taking a sip of water with him.

Iudaan's whiskers twitch as he takes in Joanna's scrutiny. He lifts his two front right paws and begins an elaborate little ritual of washing them and his face. (He may be preening a little. Just a little.)

"He was from Virginia, a veteran of your American Civil War. And he left us in 1911, by your calendar, I believe."

Over a hundred years ago. Christ. Joanna closes her eyes. The idea of carrying around that kind of loss for a century -- so heavy that even now, Dejah's voice aches with it -- makes Curtis' chest hurt.

"I'm sorry," he says, not much louder than Joanna.

Her smile broadens with his concern. "It's all right. We've learned how to live again."

"It was a close thing, though."

She nudges him. "Iudaan, must you share everything?"

"What? We went to the Temple for a week's retreat and we didn't come home for a year." He looks at his counterpart like she's being ridiculous.

She refills Curtis's glass, looking vaguely mortified at her daemon's oversharing. "That was a long time ago. Since then, I've thrown myself into my work. That is, until this place showed up. I got an enforced vacation for a month." She's smiling as she says it. Clearly not a terrible idea.

The table isn't too wide. Even with a tether shortened by years of confinement, Joanna could cross it if she wanted.

Her face disappears beneath the table. A thump follows, a quick scritch of enormous claws on hardwood; then she pops back into view on Dejah's side of the booth, hefting herself up to sit next to Iudaan in silent comfort.

"Yeah, somebody told me you can get stuck here even if you're alive." Curtis frowns. "That happen a lot?"

Iudaan shifts to make room for her, making himself as small as possible. When she's settled, he sinks down between his shoulders and presses the top of his head against her side, eyes closed.

"I don't know how often it happens." She watches the two of them, her expression shifting between sad and touched. "I just know I couldn't leave for a month. And it was -- rather nice, truth be told."

"How come?" asks Joanna as she drapes her head over Iudaan's.

Curtis doesn't say anything, but his eyes echo the question. (It's always been easier for Joanna to do the talking for both of them. At least about this kind of shit.)

Iudaan curls his paws beneath him and lets out a long, weary sigh. The kind that speaks volumes about how long it's been since he's had this privilege.

Dejah's head falls to one side and she swallows, trying force a smile back onto her face. "I didn't realize how hard we'd been working. I was angry at first. Incensed, really. How dare I be kept against my will? You know," she says, laughing at herself. "But in the end, I spent a week curled up on the couches in front of the fire, with a good book and a pot of tea. And it was glorious. I hadn't realized how tired we were."

They're quiet for a moment, absorbing Dejah's words.

(Remembering what Wilford said: the front was just as much of a prison as the tail, all of them trapped in their little steel cage hurtling around the world. Joanna had growled loud enough for Claude to aim the gun at her, like she was about to skip Wilford's daemon entirely and go straight for his throat instead. Some prisons are more of a prison than others.)

Curtis looks down at his water, downs the entire glass in one go. Even Joanna isn't sure what to say anymore.

Dejah's quiet for a long, awkward moment, fiddling with her glass. Iudaan eventually pulls back, wriggling a paw free to help straighten his whiskers.

"I'm sorry," Dejah says. "I realize how self-indulgent that sounds. We wanted to hear more about -- how you ended up here. If that's something you're willing to share with us."

He shakes his head; "Don't worry about it," Joanna murmurs, mostly automatically, as she lets Iudaan pull away.

"Not a lot to tell," says Curtis with a shrug. The healing salve seems to have done its work: both shoulders move now, if still a touch unevenly. "We already told you about the train, that's the main thing."

"And the bomb," adds Joanna.

A moment later, Iudaan shifts so he can rest his shoulder against Joanna's, in that feline fashion of I'm not really touching you, except that I totally am.

"Did you lose your arm in battle?" Dejah idly reaches out to stroke Iudaan's fur.

"Close enough," he says. "I stuck it in the engine."

Joanna shudders with the memory, leaning closer to Iudaan.

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