2goodarms | [Dejah's room]

For a quiet moment, she relaxes against him, going almost boneless. She's still twisted oddly at the waist, her feet on the floor, but he can still feel how she's letting him take her weight. Trusting him to hold her.

But it only lasts a breath, maybe two, and then she's sitting up.

"Come on. Sit up. I want to see you use it. See if there are any glitches we need to iron out."

He snorts out a fond laugh -- of course; back to business -- and pushes himself up with both hands once Dejah's upright.

"I think the sensors or, uh, whatever part of it registers touch? I think they need more fine-tuning," he admits. He extends his metal palm to Dejah. "I can feel stuff, but there's definitely a difference between my skin and this."

She takes his hand in hers, running her fingers over it, frowning a little bit.

"I think... Perhaps, you just need to... Do you remember I told you, the core will learn? So, take my hand." She reaches for his right hand. "There. Now, where did it feel different?"

There's a shimmer running under her voice. Veiled longing. That ache again.

Curtis has to fight down a shiver of his own when he picks up on that longing. Later. Focus.

He folds his hands around Dejah's, squeezing lightly. Thin frown lines etch themselves in his forehead as he tries to pinpoint the differences. "I don't know," he says at last. "It just feels like -- I don't know, like the volume's turned down on this hand."

He bounces his left hand a little without letting go of hers.

"I have to squeeze harder to feel the same stuff. And it's not as refined, you know?"

"So, squeeze with your right hand and left hand at the same time. And just as we did with the test runs, let your right hand inform your left. The core will adapt and learn. You should feel an improvement almost instantly."

She laces her fingers through his and meets his gaze, her blue eyes shining bright.

Edited 2015-09-29 03:27 (UTC)

Curtis nods. He bows his head, closes his eyes to keep his focus.

The pressure on Dejah's hands increases -- unevenly at first, his left hand overcompensating for the dulled feedback, but soon it levels out into a steady, firm grip. He sketches small circles with his right thumb, studying the texture of Dejah's skin, then mimics the motion with his left thumb.

"Huh," he says after a moment, softly pleased.

She's right. Already, his new hand's picking up on details it missed the first time around.

She can't help but smile. This reminds her of that first time he came to her rooms. So many memories of that day.

She gently shifts her hands through his, palm to palm, letting him feel the way the arm works, feel the way it takes in new information and incorporates it into the model. She watches his face as he concentrates, fixing this moment in her mind.

"It should also limit the pain input from your left hand, but pain serves to remind us not to damage ourselves, so... Just be aware of that. It also may be a bit stronger than your right arm for that very reason. The musculature is more resilient than a human arm." She's speaking softly now, not wanting to intrude on his concentration.

"Makes sense," he murmurs.

He's glad at least some pain input will stick around. It wouldn't be right to feel everything except pain. Living thirty-five years with pain being the signal to fix what's broken -- he still needs that.

Curtis slides his fingers to her wrists. Then higher, to her forearms, tracing the tattoos like he traced the one on her face; like she traced the light racing along his new arm. The pressure deepens, lightens, deepens again.

Ostensibly it's to calibrate his arm better. Ostensibly.

Dejah's breath hitches and she catches her lower lip between her teeth. Her own fingertips keep contact with his forearms, new and old, pausing only to lightly caress the deep scar just below his elbow.

Her eyelids flutter shut and she can feel herself reaching for him in that space between. That space she's known only as a cold void, an hollow place haunted by memories. It's the faintest of impressions, but it's warm and it's solid and she knows it's him.

He traces over the years of her life, like he could read her story with just the tips of his fingers. Breathe. Just breathe.

Edited 2015-09-29 23:42 (UTC)

Concentrating on the feel of her skin, the layers of muscle beneath, the way she shifts under his touch...yeah, when there isn't even a hint of the detachment they tried to maintain the first time Curtis visited, he's having a hard time remembering to shift his focus from his right hand to his left, carrying the information between the two.

(That just means he has to keep touching her. Damn.)

Both hands just above her elbows, Curtis stills when her fingers light on his scar. A small noise, not quite a wince, forms in the back of his throat: it doesn't carry any pain, but she can feel an aversion as deep as the mark, so deep it touches the shadow swimming under his thoughts.

She feels it, and without opening her eyes, without thought or hesitation, she wraps her hands around the old scar. Firm, as if she could stem the flow of blood from a non-existent wound. She pulls him in close to her, and holds tight.

"It's all right." You are safe here. You are loved here.

I know, he wants to say, but --

But he succeeded against everything that scar represents. But the warmth flowing from Dejah's voice cradles him as securely as her arms. And whenever he tells her the whole story...

He'll just have to worry about that later. Not now. Not here.

Curtis wraps his arms around Dejah; his eyes sting unexpectedly as he leans into her.

She pulls his head down to her shoulder, smoothing her hands over the scruff of his head, crooning under her breath. She cannot bear to see him in pain, especially not the cruel blade of memory. It slicest at the most tender flesh.

"Curtis, my beloved, tell me what happened to your arm."

"I can't."

Quiet, wretched agony twists through his words. The shadow shivers.

"I will. Eventually. Please not right now."

She nods, holding tight to him. What more can she ask? This has been an incredible day for the two of them.

She pulls back and takes his hands in hers, draws him back to the bed to sit. And when they're seated, she pulls him in again, kissing his brow and his cheeks. What more can either of them ask for, but time and patience?

He sighs, a little shaky, unutterably relieved. Thank you.

Curtis lets his hands drift back to her arms, close to the spot he left off. He draws them higher to the swirls on her shoulders, follows the lines in to her collarbone, back up and around to the top of her spine. He lets a few pieces of hair run through his fingers; when his left hand finally gets the memo, and he can differentiate between the individual strands, a tiny smile returns to his face.

Her chin rises and she bares her throat to him, eyes closed, trust and longing shimmering through the soft sighs his touch elicits. He touches the nape of her neck and goosebumps rise, running down her shoulders and arms. She keeps touching him, tries to focus on feeling where he's put on new muscle, where his ribs aren't as pronounced as they were a month ago.

He runs his fingers through her hair and she buries her face against his shoulder, her fingertips gently digging into his back. She can't help it; worse, she doesn't want to.

Curtis' breath catches. "Dejah -- "

She can hear, and feel, how badly he wants to keep going. It's all he can think about anymore; he's barely paying attention to the calibration tests. Her tattoos vanish under her clothes, reappear as tracks down her abdomen, and all he wants to do is keep following them lower and lower, finishing what they've started, doing what he promised weeks ago.

He nuzzles against her throat, trailing a line of kisses just beneath her jaw. His hands roam down her back to land on her hips.

She can barely think at all, with the feel of his breath against her pulse, with the warmth of his bare torso under her hands. She tangles her feet with his, pulling them close together from shoulder to knee, her hips pressing tight to his. He is so warm and he smells divine, and it's been so long since she's felt this way. It clouds her mind and a distant part of her whispers that this is dangerous, this is so, so dangerous.

She knows she has to turn back, but she doesn't want to. Just a few minutes more. They deserve that, don't they?

"Curtis..." She breathes his name like a breath of fire.

Curtis, still mouthing kisses along her neck, stifles a groan as she pulls him closer. Christ, this is getting more and more difficult.

"Do you want to keep going?"

She's got to be the one to decide. He's not going to be an ass; anyway, there's enough crap around her position as Jeddak that he doesn't want to hurt her if this made it back to Helium somehow. Nobody gives a shit what some nobody from the Tail gets up to in his spare time.

But damn he really hopes she says yes. Even more than before. He can't stop touching her, can't stop being fascinated by how she feels after months with only one hand.

She grips him so tight, he can feel her hands shake, like a train car going too fast, rattling itself apart. Yes, she wants to keep going. She wants to taste every inch of his skin, wants to drown him in sweet holy fire and then let herself be consumed in the flames.

But somehow the thread of concern in his voice catches her, tangles in her thoughts, slicing them to ribbons. She shifts and catches his face between her palms, gazing into his eyes.

What she wants is a life with him. What she wants is the knowledge that this is not merely playfulness for him, that this is an echo of a deeper bond. It's not a fair question to ask, either of them. Her body wants, but her heart wants more.

"Can we talk about this?" She can barely get the breath to ask, and there's a thread of fear, real fear in her words. That saying no again will make him pull away from her, like he did in the beginning.

And that would hurt too much to even consider.

His Adam's apple bobs. "...Yeah."

The concern strengthens, nearly masking the tiny flicker of disappointment that darts between his words like a minnow. Curtis keeps his hands at her hips to steady both of them -- and to silently reassure her that he'll stay here, no matter what she might say.

"What is it?"

She swallows, blinking rapidly. She's still breathing hard and she has to steal another kiss before she can find the words. A slow, lingering, deep kiss, one that threatens to pull her under again. She breaks it and stays close, so close she can feel his breath on her lips.

"I want you. I want you here in my bed. In my arms. I don't think you even know -- how much I want you."

The kiss drowns out everything, turning his worries to white noise. It disorients him with its intensity; all he can do is return it with full fervor, giving himself to the feel of her mouth on his.

Curtis needs a second to get his bearings once they break apart. He leans against her, manages a nod once she speaks.

(She has to know it's mutual. He wouldn't keep asking for more if it wasn't.)

"But?" he prompts, very soft.

"But I don't think you have any idea what it is I want from you. I don't think you understand..."

Her words break off in quiet frustration, her hands still fretting at the nape of his neck, her heels dug into the backs of his calf. She speaks and he can feel how fragile she is in this moment. How vulnerable.

"I can't be just a quick fuck. This can't be a trial run for me. I've already come too far..." Her words taper off with her breath.

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