[Room 1001]

[2goodarms]

Exercise: done. Food: done. Brief walk outside so he can keep getting used to all that goddamn space: done.

Dare Curtis say he's settling into a routine?

Right now, part of that routine includes flipping through the book Dejah got him -- the Forge 101 stuff he keeps meaning to try again soon. If he props one leg up so he can rest the book against his thigh, he can even turn the pages one-handed without too much trouble.

Comments

[2goodarms]

Curtis nods. The anger flutters in his throat, blocking words for an instant; he swallows it back.

"So what'd you get?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Another long beat, before Edgar tugs aside the wrapping.

To reveal the curved sweep of metal, broad and wickedly sharp, with its horn hilt designed for a hand much larger than his own.

[2goodarms]

...Jesus Christ.

The weapon -- he wants to say it looks Front, but that isn't quite right. It's nicer, more deadly, than anything they ever held, but it's not on par with a gun or a set of night-vision goggles.

It's got the same air, though. Something better. Something from a higher station.

Curtis sets the book on his pillow, unable to say a word for several too-long seconds.




"He knows it's not your first kill, right?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Subdued: "I told him, yeah."

He looks back down at the sword, runs fingers over the blade.

"Seemed to feel like he had an obligation."

[2goodarms]

One corner of Curtis' mouth twists.

The silence stretches even longer this time, both of them studying the sword.

[hate_gettin_older]

A bit helplessly: "I don't know what to fuckin do with this, man."

By this, he means the entire situation more than the actual piece of metal.

[2goodarms]

That note in Edgar's voice finally jars him out of the moment, away from the anger, back to the present needs: look after him.

"Maybe there's nothing you've gotta do," he says, quiet. "Just go along with the -- " An absent gesture toward the sword. "The bullshit until it's over. If he's got some obligation and he's not gonna back down from giving you that..."

He can just see Edgar trying an unsuccessful thanks but no thanks after Tars gave him the sword.

"It's better than him swinging it at your head."

[hate_gettin_older]

A faint snort of uneasy laughter. "Yeah, 's kind of what I was thinking. I mean ..."

How to explain this when he doesn't fully understand it himself?

"Seemed like it'd be a major insult if I said no."

[2goodarms]

"Fucking front-sectioners," Curtis mutters under his breath, more weary than heated.

Like the sword, Tars isn't really Front -- not the way they know -- but on Barsoom, he's got power neither Edgar nor Curtis have.

[hate_gettin_older]

Which brings to mind the other part of what he and Tars talked about. Edgar doesn't know how, or whether, to bring that up.

"Yeah," is what he says instead, with a small sigh. "I mean, he's not Front like Dejah is, but ..."

[2goodarms]

"Yeah," he agrees, low, and punctuates it with a similar sigh.

If he's getting this irritated over a goddamn sword, is he going to survive his own trip to Barsoom? Will he blow whatever cover Dejah's working so hard to craft? He doesn't have much cause to doubt their relationship anymore -- those little flinches of she's Front, be careful faded long ago -- but sometimes, like now, the enormity of their differences looms so large that Curtis feels exhausted just thinking about how to deal with it.

[hate_gettin_older]

In a slightly lower voice: "Is this okay?"

[2goodarms]

Curtis shrugs. Whether he thinks it's okay or not seems pretty beside the point; it's already happened.

"Yeah," he says again. It's the sort of agreement that's more like I guess than of course.

[hate_gettin_older]

"'Cause, I mean, he knows --"

He grasps at the air with one hand, trying to pull together the words he wants.

"He knows he's not my Jeddak."

[2goodarms]

There's a funny crush of emotion in Curtis' chest. He looks down at his hand, working the pad of his thumb over each of his fingertips as if trying to untangle a knot.

So who's your Jeddak? Me?

God, he never wanted to lead, he never wanted Edgar to look up to him so goddamn much -- but when it's just the two of them in this bizarre-as-hell afterlife, when Edgar's the only one around who really gets what the Tail does to you...Curtis doesn't want him to follow somebody else who doesn't have the first fucking clue about the train. That thread winding through the old, exhausted frustration, prying it apart to give Curtis a little breathing room?

It's relief. Comfort in knowing neither of them will have to fend for themselves.

He nods, looks up, almost says good before stopping himself.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar might hear that unspoken good, though. Just might.




"Fuckin thing's way too big to carry anyway," he says, his tone starting to approach something lighter.

[2goodarms]

Curtis snorts. "I was gonna say. Where the hell are you gonna put that?"

It's a much bigger party favor than that cup they made out of the Devil Snare's beak.

[hate_gettin_older]

"No idea, man." Rueful.

"... Maybe the closet?"

[2goodarms]

"Yeah. Stuff it behind some towels. Slice off a finger when you try to get a washcloth."

Solemn.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Well obviously not behind stuff, that'd be stupid."

[2goodarms]

In tones of great enlightenment: "Oh, okay, so we'll attach it to the front door instead. Got it."

One corner of his mouth's starting to twitch again.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Or hey, maybe hang it over the door. Didn't all those mighty warrior types used to do that?"

[2goodarms]

"Maybe? I don't know. Sounds like a thing they'd do."

He shakes his head, the twitch growing to a full smile.

"But you come back with a fur coat next time and I'm setting it on fire."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Are you fuckin telling me you don't want a fur coat? I think you'd look sharp in one."

[2goodarms]

"What, and a big pair of glasses too?"