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[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.
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 gives the staff an unnecessarily flashy spin around her hips, a wicked grin on her lips. This might be considered flirting on Barsoom.
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The more he pushes himself out of that tiny box of space he wants to occupy, the easier it gets to go on the offense; to act, instead of merely react. He alternates between dodging hits and catching them on his staff, trying to mirror the way she tosses his blows aside with a quick flick of her weapon. He lets himself be less economical, claiming more and more of the mat for himself.
He's also, without quite realizing, no longer aiming hits toward that spot on her leg. Dejah's pain seemed totally disproportionate to the strength of the blow; Curtis knows old, tender injuries when he sees them.
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She feels him not working her weak leg, and she starts presenting it as a shield. Subtly at first, and then like a bullfighter waving a red cape in front of the bull, taunting him with it.
A weakness can be its own strength. "Come on," she grits out through her teeth, pressing into his space, making him back up if he doesn't take that opening.
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(But if he attacks her like he doesn't care what happens, like he doesn't care about her -- )
He whirls the staff into a sharp, precisely contained arc, ending with a whack against her bad leg. Just enough to hurt, and just enough to drive her back; no more.
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(Not thinking of the feel of his fingertips skating up her arm. Not thinking of the way his fingers feel woven in her hair. Not thinking of those lush lips or those ridiculous eyelashes.)
"Was beginning to think," she puffs, still exchanging blows with him, "you weren't paying. Attention."
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As much as he's improved over the last few months, his endurance has a long way to go before it's at its peak. Curtis' reaction times are dragging a little slower, his couterattacks not landing with the same surety. This is fun, but it's hard fucking work.
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She also lands on her back, this time with his head between her legs. Instead of letting him go, she crosses her ankles under his arm and squeezes until he drops the staff, laughing the whole while.
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THUD.
(A second, much smaller thump follows as his staff falls to the mat.)
"...Dammit," he wheezes, so wiped out that even his grin wobbles a little. Weakly, Curtis slaps his open hand against the mat a couple times. "I gotta take a break, gimme a minute -- "
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That smile is like a straight hit of the finest pimalia wine. It goes straight to her head.
Though she can barely get the breath to say it, she can't resist. "Victory..." She reaches out with one slightly wobbly hand and tugs the hat from his head.
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"Just wait." A gasp for air. "Rematch. On Mars. -- Barsoom," he corrects himself, as he lists his head to the side to meet her eyes. "I'll kick your ass."
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"Absolutely."
She levers herself up to one elbow and rests against his side, bending to steal a slow, deep, lingering kiss.
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He leans into the kiss, stealing his arm around her waist to pull her closer. His feet tangle with hers, as if they're lying side by side on a bed instead of a workout mat. (He'd always do that when he shared a bunk with someone. Less worry about space; less worry about one of them falling off when the train took a sharp corner.)
They're not alone up here, but for as long as the kiss lasts, it sure as hell feels like it.
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Eventually, the kiss breaks and she stays nose to nose with him. She's in no hurry to get up.
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"You doing all right?"
Doesn't seem like he's in any rush to get up, either.
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She's trying to remember if he's ever been this affectionate with her before, and outside those dreams she indulges in just before she falls asleep at night? She thinks, no, this is a first for them. She's not sure whether to be thrilled or terrified. Is this purely physical? Is it that something more that she's been praying for?
Another part of her is stridently saying it doesn't matter, that nothing exists outside this tiny bubble of space and time. There is no Thern plot brewing beneath the surface. There is no grand disaster waiting to unfold. There's just this. His arm around her waist. His beard against her cheek. His heartbeat resonating against her chest.
"Need a little more time, she whispers. She uses the tip of her nose to trace the shell of his ear.
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In the tail, you grab what scraps of peace you can -- five minutes alone, ten minutes with someone else, accepting that there's no possible way it'll endure. Like a slow etch of frost appearing on a windowpane, he realizes: this is the other side of staying with Dejah for more than a few weeks, a few months, whatever. He'll have to tell her the truth, yeah, but he'll also have moments of peace that do endure. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Longer, maybe.
What a strange thing. What a fucking amazing thing, like a burst of sunlight after decades in a dim cage.
He's practically boneless against the ground, against her, his fingers drawing absent caresses along her hip bone. "Me too," he admits. "Think I might be done."
(With sparring, at least.)
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"You need to go talk to Edgar. But after that..."
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"After that?" he prompts, softly.
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Mostly because he was in it at the time.
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Except:
"Just sleeping?"
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"Torture, I know. But yes. Just sleeping."
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Maybe the hammock would be best. It's not like it'd be impossible in a hammock, but it'd certainly be more difficult than Dejah's bed. But his veins still hum like a static shock; he wants to sink into the heat of her, now more than ever, watch the way her body and her face move when he --
Yeah this is a terrible idea.
He shakes his head, even as he smooths his hand over her hair. Apologetic, "I don't think I can leave it there."
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She leans into his touch, drops her head down again, resting temple to temple with him. Her whole body presses closer to him, and her heel strokes down the back of his calf.
"All right." She sounds apologetic as well. Her grip on him tightens, as if she could hold onto these moments even as they slip through her fingers.
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"Another time," he whispers in her ear, and kisses her temple.
Another time when they don't have to stop. When she's finally comfortable enough to keep going.
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If they make it that far. Please, sweet holy mother, let them make it that far.
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