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[Dejah's room]
Time passes. Asleep, half-dazed by the Voice of Barsoom, Curtis has even less sense of how long he stays in Dejah's bed.
(In his dreams, everything's warm and bright, even the smallest spaces of the train; nothing aches, and voices ring all around him.)
When he finally wakes up, utter disorientation smacks into him headlong -- where am I? what the fuck am I sleeping on? -- before he feels the warm body next to him and, like a compass swinging north, reorients around the soft sound of Dejah's breath. Sleep took care of the last side effects: he feels completely steady, awake, his calm returning as he looks over at Dejah.
(In his dreams, everything's warm and bright, even the smallest spaces of the train; nothing aches, and voices ring all around him.)
When he finally wakes up, utter disorientation smacks into him headlong -- where am I? what the fuck am I sleeping on? -- before he feels the warm body next to him and, like a compass swinging north, reorients around the soft sound of Dejah's breath. Sleep took care of the last side effects: he feels completely steady, awake, his calm returning as he looks over at Dejah.
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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?"
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"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."
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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.
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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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Oh, Dejah.
Curtis wraps his arms around her, his chin on her shoulder, gathering his thoughts.
"This isn't a quick fuck," he whispers. Of course it's not. Not at this point. "But I think -- can I tell you what it was this kind of thing was like back home? Before the freeze?"
Not just Front versus Tail, he reminds himself. Earth versus Barsoom.
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"Tell me."
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"I don't know what it was like back in the 1800s when John showed up," he says, still quiet, "but I think it was closer to what Barsoom's like than when I grew up in the 2000s. As far as formal courtship and all that. Once you hit maybe...I don't know, thirteen or fourteen, you started dating around. You got into relationships with a bunch of people as you grew up, and sometimes they stuck and sometimes they didn't. Like -- sometimes high school sweethearts got married, so you'd stick with the person you met when you were sixteen. But it was way more likely you'd only date someone for a few months, maybe a year, and then break up. It's how you learned."
This probably isn't alleviating any of her fears. Curtis sighs, a little frustrated, working harder to find the words.
"Usually things got more serious once you hit your twenties, 'cause you'd figured out more of your own shit and knew what you wanted. But even then...you'd date the same person for a couple years before you got married, most of the time. You'd sleep together and live together and everything to make sure you were really compatible, because getting married was a really big commitment and you didn't want to fuck it up."
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"My life is not so simple, I've tried to tell you. I have been presented hundreds of suitors since I was widowed. I do not have the luxury to spend years getting to know someone, only to go back on that decision. I have too many other lives hanging in the balance, depending on me to be their Jeddak."
She's come too far, she knows. This -- what she feels for him -- it has wound itself deep into the fabric of her being. Her grip on him tightens.
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He swallows again, harder, and tries to ignore the spreading cold.
"We have time here. Time stops. And -- " He wrenches himself back around to the point he'd been aiming for when he started. "Look, leaving out the one night stands, sex is just part of getting to know someone. Back home. Like we've been getting to know each other, and it means this is more serious and might be going somewhere bigger -- "
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"It's not like that for me. It can not be like that for me. If I give myself to you, I give myself wholly and completely. And I fear, I've already come too far."
Her hand finds its home on his cheek, thumb stroking his beard.
"Please, try to understand." her voice breaks, her jaw clenched.
He can feel her breaking in his hands. Can feel her pulling herself apart, her longing for him and her duty to Barsoom tearing her in two like gossamer silk.
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His heart hammers against his ribs. He can't back out, he can't -- she gave him the arm, he took the Voice of Barsoom, he can't hurt her like this -- he let himself fall in with someone from the Front, and she's asked so little but why can't he just have some fucking time why is that so hard --
He's so afraid he can't even breathe. Afraid the Voice of Barsoom will do its work. Afraid she'll know, in that split-second moment before he can get himself the fuck together and figure out what to do. She's worth figuring out something.
He doesn't want to go.
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"I'm not asking for a marriage proposal, Curtis. I just want to know that whatever this is -- it's serious. It's something worth fighting for. Worth waiting for."
The longing still runs through her words, clear and bright, even as her fear surrounds it like storm clouds.
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"Dejah." Curtis cups her face in both hands. They're not trembling; he's grateful for that. "Look. If this was gonna be something quick it would've stopped months ago. I'm serious about it. You're -- "
Again, that pause as he tries to find the right words.
"You're incredible. You're somebody I want to spend time with. I swear to god I'm not just trying to get into your pants. I wanna share that with you sometime because I'm serious. Okay?"
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For a moment, all she can do is nod, closing her eyes to lean into his touch. His hands holding her face, sweet holy mother, she had no idea what that would feel like.
But he still doesn't understand what's at stake and she needs to find the words to explain. She opens her eyes and licks her lips. He deserves nothing less than the whole truth.
"If we share this, it will deepen the Bond between us. If I give this to you, I would be giving you a path to the very heart of Helium. You will be in my mind, and I will be in yours. We will share each other's dreams. Making love, Curtis, it opens a door between us. It's so much more than just getting to know one another. It's a sacred gift of trust."
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When she said the bond would deepen, Curtis thought it still wouldn't go beyond some kind of emotional telepathy. Maybe reading surface thoughts. Not -- not that.
His anxiety flutters anew. Quickly, he forces it down, but it shimmers around his words as he says, "Okay." A second's pause. "Maybe...maybe after I see Helium."
The shadow, never far away, coils in the air between them, a formless, quiet dread. He's going to have to tell her. Not at some theoretical future point; he has a deadline now. Before Helium.
Fuck.
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After Helium. Maybe. It feels like something cracks in her chest, a dull ache that turns sharp.
She wants to tell him she loves him, already. Now. Without the Bond. She wants to share with him pleasure like he has never experienced before. She wants him, regardless of the consequences.
It's like falling through the air, the twist in the pit of her stomach. Like plummeting towards the earth all over again, only there is no one to save her this time. A Jeddak does not get to want.
A Jeddak also never begs, but she is not a Jeddak in this moment. She is just a woman trying to hold onto someone very, very precious to her.
"Curtis. Stay with me. Talk to me."
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So much for the Voice of Barsoom improving his damn communication skills.
"Can we -- " His brain catches up to his mouth and recoils, horrified by what he's about to say. "Tomorrow. Can we go for a walk? I'll tell you everything then."
Oh, god. The nausea churns harder. He can't do this; he has to do this.
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"All right. Yes, if that is what you need, then yes."
He's not surrendering the field. He stays to fight. He just needs time. The strategic mind she adores so much.
That bright thread of hope shines through all of it. Hope and the same warmth she always holds for him when she speaks.
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But that fluttery, frightened anxiety isn't there anymore. His emotions sink into a heavy tread, like a man about to face a war he has no chance of winning. It must be done. It's going to be awful, it might ruin everything, but if he doesn't do this, it'll definitely destroy everything they've made.
He has no idea how he's going to sleep tonight. Or if he's going to be able to keep Edgar off his back once the kid picks up on his nerves -- assuming he goes back to their room later.
Curtis holds on to her, to the thread of hope and warmth that curls around them both, and adds a barely audible, "Thank you."
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It is the truth that she will still love him. Whether or not she can look at him, though. That's another story entirely.
She steals another soft kiss from his lips, her hands cradling his head. For now, she has these moments and no one is going to steal them away from her.
"You feel good," she whispers, trying to keep him from slipping into darkness just yet.
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I'm glad you're here. That I'm here.
Curtis' new fingers find her shoulder again, returning to their familiar route along her tattoos. He keeps his other arm fast around her, drawing what comfort he can find from the moment.
As he follows the patterns: "I never asked what all these mean."
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"My clan marks," she says, her own fingers finding the hollow of his throat, tracking along his collarbone to the peak of his left shoulder. "They tell my story. My victories in battle. My degrees awarded at the Academy. Every ord, another chapter gets added. My people do not age as humans do, so I suppose it's a visual reference for how many years we've been alive."
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He stays quiet for a while. The shadow flattens, disappears into a background static barely detectable over their emotional link; he relaxes into her touch, a little at a time.
"There was someone in the Tail who..."
He stops there.
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Her hand continues exploring, marking the scar tissue above where the isolates melt into his body. Assured that there's no irritation, no pain, her hand drifts back along the top of his shoulder. She's memorizing every freckle, every tiny scar all the way to the side of his neck, trailing up into his hairline. Peace. Contentment. Safety.
Nothing exists but the two of them, here and now.
"Someone who?" she prompts, gently.
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And as far as reactions to trauma go, better to go mute than -- well.
"And there was another guy, Painter -- we all just called him that 'cause he was an artist. He'd grab paper during the junk deliveries and make his own charcoal. Sketched stuff all the time. He's how we ended up documenting half the shit that went on back there.
"Anyway, he figured out how to make tattoo ink and asked Grey if he wanted to put words on his skin. And he did."
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