2goodarms | [Milliways stables]

[Milliways stables]

On the short list of Things Curtis Didn't Expect, "talking helped as much as fighting to ditch his bad mood" ranks right near the top.

...okay, yeah, so did the kissing. And the promise of more, even if that "more" isn't happening tonight. And just -- being around Dejah, watching her smile, listening to the warmth of her voice. It's like she thaws the coldest parts of him; melts the ice with a touch; sets the water moving again. She barely has to do anything except be, and all of a sudden he's feeling better than he has all day.

How the hell did this happen so fast?

He's still dressed for the gym -- undershirt, wrapped hand, and all -- as he makes his way out to the stables. If Edgar's not there, maybe he'll try to re-introduce himself to Nitwit before going back to room 1001. That baby thoat's probably had a pretty weird day.

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Curtis' eyebrows rise.

"No. What cup?"

He shifts again, squirming sideways to rummage in the makeshift inner pockets of his jacket until he comes up with it: the polished lower beak of the Devil's Snare, set in a holder of knotted and molded leather.

Damn. That is nice. Curtis purses his lips in a near-silent whistle.

"Hell of a party favor," he says.

"It's part of the whatsit's mouth," he says, closing one hand over the top of the cup -- fingers spread wide, as it's a good deal bigger than his hand -- and flapping his hand up and down by way of illustration, as of a beak opening and closing. "The Devil's Snare. Iljat, that's what Tars's people call it."

He's trying to picture a spray of tentacles surrounding that mouth, sprawling nearly to the size of Nitwit -- like Julia Fruitnugget's younger cousin, but a hell of a lot meaner. It's...pretty unsettling.

Thank God for that super-strength.

"We're gonna have to make you a trophy case," he says, deadpan.

"I was thinking maybe I might keep my rock collection in it," he says, a little dreamily.

(And maybe just a little smugly.)

"String it up with the twine? Hang it from the ceiling?"

...shit, he's gonna have to get the twine back from Dejah now that Woola doesn't need the scent anymore. Eh, he'll do it tomorrow.

"Tie it to the end of my hammock? Maybe just leave it on the windowsill."

(It's still weird to realize every so often that he has enough room to do that. To keep his own stuff that far away from his bunk.)

"And put a little flower in there to top it all off."

Solemn.

"Or maybe a butterfly."

Just as solemn.

"It can hang out with the Martian bug I bring home."

Beat.

"Shit, I gotta think of a name for this bug now. 'Moron?'"

Edgar snorts with laughter, his head falling back against Nitwit's side.

"I can't believe you did that," says Curtis, starting to snicker. "Dejah was like -- "

He widens his eyes, putting on a mimicry of Dejah's accent.

"'Is that the name of a great warrior?' She fuckin' lost it when I told her what it meant."

"Oh christ," and now Edgar's laughing hard, clutching his stomach.

Nitwit twitches in her sleep and lets out a questioning grumble, and subsides again.

Curtis' own snickering redoubles. He presses the side of his hand to his mouth, trying to rein it in.

"The great hero Nitwit and his mighty steed, Dumbass -- "

"-- and his legendary sword Thick-as-a-brick --"

He's managed to stifle the volume in deference to the sleeping thoatling, but he's still laughing, close to silently.

"Oh, god -- " By now, his shoulders are shaking with the effort to keep his laughter contained. "We gotta tell that story to the Martians when we go back -- "

"Yes," and he can't get any more than that out through the effort of not roaring with laughter.

Curtis gives up entirely, burying his face in his arm as he dissolves into laughter.

God, it feels good to laugh. To give in to something that isn't mindless, stupid anger over shit he can't control. And it's so good that this kind of joy isn't some rare, fleeting occurrence anymore.

Nitwit's definitely awake now, craning her stubby neck around to blink tiny weak eyes at her helper person and the friend person who smells sort of like him. "Wonk?"

"No," Edgar wheezes, and pats her shoulder. "No, it's okay, pieface. Go back to sleep."

"Shit -- "

Curtis raises his head, still grinning

"Sorry, Nitwit," he manages through his snickering. "S'okay."

The thoatling makes another sleepy grumbling noise and subsides, closing her eyes and lowering her head back to the floor.

"We should be quieter," Edgar half-whispers through the remnants of his own laughter.

"Yeah." With one last snicker, Curtis wipes his eyes. "Sorry."

Last thing they need is to wake up Nitwit and all the horses.

"It's getting kinda late anyway."

"Yeah." He rubs his eyes in turn, attempts to suppress a yawn and fails. "Sleep, you think?"

"Probably, yeah."

Or at least attempt to sleep. Curtis slumps lower against the wall -- he can't bring himself to sprawl, even with all the space, but he can stretch out his legs, at least. The yawn's contagious; soon enough, he's yawning, too.

"Night, man. Good to have you back."

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hate_gettin_older - 2015-08-23 03:29 (UTC) - Expand

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dejah_thoris - 2015-08-23 03:43 (UTC) - Expand

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