2goodarms | [Milliways]

[Milliways]

[From here.]

If he were back on the train, he'd go to his bunk, shove the curtain closed, and stay there for as long as possible until the swirl of emotions died down. After that first month, Curtis always figured it was better to isolate himself than risk lashing out at the rest of the tail.

Too bad he's not on the train anymore.

As Edgar heads back out to the stables -- giving Curtis space like most people did when he got angry, and fuck if that doesn't feel like winning his way through a tantrum, too, god -- and he and Dejah head up to the gym, Curtis gets to work wiggling open the jar of salve. He can't quite get the proper leverage with just one hand, even with the jar pressed between his stump and his side; gritting his teeth, he labors on with grim determination.

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She touches his arm and whispers, gently. "Here, let me. I think it's sealed for transport."

Curtis stops. For an instant, he has the wild urge to slam the jar into the ground rather than hand it to Dejah.

The urge passes; he hands it over, not looking at her, jaw still set.

She takes it, pockets it, and leads him towards one of the many stairways. The bottom stair was the perfect perch for the moment.

"Sit." She doesn't give him much choice, tugging him with her as she does so. "Now, this is the part where we either talk or we go straight to the mats. I can fight one handed, I've done it before."

"Probably make it a fairer fight," he mutters, unfelt. He props his feet on the step below them, resting his arm across his knees.

So his choices are either be an even bigger dick by forcing Dejah to spar while she's injured, or...talk. Fantastic.

Do I have to? says the resigned look he turns her way.

"Fair is a luxury, we both know that," she says, fiddling with the top of the jar herself now. The wax seal begins to chip off in small pieces, each of which she collects in fabric between her knees.

"It's not fair that Edgar got to see Barsoom before you did. It's not fair he was off having an adventure while you were here stuck, worried out of your mind. It's not fair that -- he seems to be fine about the whole thing, while you've still got a belly full of sand and fire fleas."

....

It's not that Curtis is surprised his thoughts were so transparent. He'd just been hoping they weren't quite that transparent.

Goddammit.

He sighs, hanging his head. "I'm glad he's okay," he says, low. That should be all that matters.

"I am, too." Dejah cuts a glance at him, a wry smile on her lips.

"I had no idea you were so keen to see my homeworld."

Curtis hitches his good shoulder in an awkward shrug.

"Kind of fits," he says after a moment. The tiniest smile emerges, unwillingly. "I spend all this time planning it and thinking about it and Edgar just..."

He gestures forward, like a straight shot to the engine.

"To be fair, it's not like he had much choice in the matter. And if you think of it, he's done reconnaissance for you. He can tell you what to expect, about the weather, and the gravity differences. The mild telepathy."

Her voice quiets a little at the last. She doesn't want to impose upon him. At the same time, she doesn't want him to feel like she's hiding something from him. Or worse, holding it back out of spite.

The top comes off the jar with a little pop and a pungent scent emerges. Dejah wrinkles her nose and offers it to him. "Yes, that's what I remember it smelling like. Here, I can hold it while you do the honors." She holds the jar in her left hand and unfurls her right, laying it on his knee.

"Yeah." Quiet again. "I know."

This wasn't Edgar's fault. It's not like he asked the bar to drag him off to Barsoom. As the anger begins its slow spiral downward, it's a lot easier for Curtis to catch that thought, holding it close.

He barely wrinkles his nose as he gets a whiff of the jar's contents -- it's one of the fouler things he's smelled since coming to Milliways, but by no means the foulest he's ever smelled -- before scooping up a fingertip's worth of the salve. Scooting a little closer to Dejah, he smooths it across her palm, gently working it into her skin.

"So if I drank that," he says -- and, realizing it might be misconstrued, hastily adds, "The Voice of Barsoom. I'd get that telepathy thing with everybody else who's ever drank it too?"

She bites her lip and her eyelids flutter shut. She takes a deep breath, letting it out after a few moments. Her voice takes on a bit of the professorial tone she uses from time to time. Not patronizing, but imparting important information.

"In a sense, yes. I don't know how it would function here in the Bar. As far as my research can tell, it's a harmless bacteria that exists throughout the entire ecosystem. Every living thing on the planet has a bit of it in their bloodstream -- or if they don't have a bloodstream, whatever passes for a bloodstream. It allows us to sense surface emotions or intent."

"We all take the Voice of Barsoom when we are very young. And I'm fairly sure it's why we don't have the vast number of languages that Jasoom has. We have dialects, but they're all of the same language. I've never met someone on Barsoom that I couldn't communicate with."

The knot of scar tissue over her palm runs deeper than Curtis expected. He cradles her hand, pressing lightly with his thumb to see if he can feel the borders of the injury. Jesus, no wonder she was having trouble moving her fingers.

He scoops up more salve, keeps rubbing it over the scar as he absorbs that information. "It's gotta work at least a little bit here," he says eventually. "If Nitwit can still understand Edgar."

Beat.

Faintly amused, and more to himself: "Of course he fucking named it Nitwit."

What is it about that smile that cuts right through her? It makes her chest ache and makes her feel a little lightheaded. She cherishes each and every one.

She swallows, bites her lip as he works the salve into her palm. It's melting into her skin, and already she can feel it becoming more supple under his touch.

"Is this the name of a great hero?"

Curtis' hand stills. He bends his head over their clasped hands; his shoulders start to shake.

Only when he lets go of Dejah's hand and presses his forearm to his eyes does it becomes obvious: he's laughing, almost silent, the weak and nearly uncontrollable laughter of tension finally unraveled.

For a terrifying moment, she thinks he's weeping. Something clenches in her chest, so hard she can barely breathe.

And then he pulls away, and she can hear the way his breath moves. He's laughing, and her face splits in a broad grin.

She grips the salve between her knees and touches his shoulder. "What? What did I say?"

"'S a -- " He gulps in air, trying to compose himself, and immediately falls back into another round of snickering. Quiet as it might be, Curtis is laughing so hard that he is starting to weep. "No. 'S not -- "

Okay, come on. Deep breaths.

He lifts his face, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his coat sleeve, and finally manages, "It means 'idiot.' Kind of a nicer way to say it, but."

Yeah.

His laughter is contagious and before he's done, she's laughing, too. Her voice is rich and low and she leans in close.

"What? He named the poor beast 'idiot'?"

Curtis nods, giving up on speech as he leans against Dejah.

"Nicer way of saying idiot," he emphasizes eventually.

She can't help herself. As the laughter settles out between them, she catches his cheek and pulls him up so she can steal a kiss. She hums quietly, leaning into him, overcome with relief.

Yeah, of all the ways he could get the laughter under control, Curtis thinks he likes this one best.

When the kiss breaks, he circles his arm around her shoulders to give her a quick hug. In a low murmur, "Sorry I was being a dick."

She nuzzles his cheek, laughing quietly under her breath, her smile easily heard in her voice. She steals another soft kiss before she sits back a bit.

"No harm done. Though you might owe Edgar an apology, too."

"Yeah," he agrees with a resigned sigh. "I'll go talk to him after we're done."

He catches her hand, his thumb lighting on the scar. "How much do I need to put on here?"

She flexes her fingers and splays her hand wide. The salve has soaked into her skin and formed a tough layer on the surface. Like a vaguely green scab, but flexible.

"I think that's good for now. I'll tape it up before we spar."

Her hand closes around his. "Are you ever going to tell me -- 'what the deal is' between you and Edgar?" The phrase sounds awkward coming out of her mouth, but she's trying to use his idiom.

The last of the humor fades.

Somewhere along the way, a mountain shifted in Curtis' mind: she can never know changing -- so slowly he barely noticed -- into you have to tell her someday. This thing he and Dejah have...it's not going to be temporary. And if it's not temporary, that means she'll have to learn the truth.

The dread feels like the rumble of the train. Like wind seeping through the joints of the metal. It's cold, but quiet, an everpresent thing that he doesn't need to deal with right away. Just a new piece of background noise to fold into his life.

"Not right now," he whispers.

But that isn't no; never.

She bends to rest her forehead against his temple. "All right." She doesn't feel the need to press him for more information. This is a story that will come in its own time and in its own way. She touches his cheek again, pulls his eyes up to meet hers.

"I know who you are, Curtis Everett."

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